Besides a consistently warm hole, FemFan provided food and shelter in my time of need. Whenever I got tired of angel hair pasta and store-brand spaghetti sauce in a can, I could go to her place and she would order whatever: pizza, Chinese, it didn’t matter. Hurricane threatening to devastate the DMV? I had a place to wait out the storm. If she didn’t drive to my place to pick me up, she would pay for a cab. When I couldn’t afford metro fair to get to work, she would give me money. So when I couldn’t afford to get to the airport to fly to a funeral, or food to last until payday later that week, she gave me enough cash to hold me over. But I didn’t tell her that I hadn’t paid my phone bill, and AT&T followed through with their threats and cut it off. She knew when I’d be returning (a couple of days), and I got my parents to pay my bill so my phone was back on, but I saw the opportunity to stay silent for the rest of the week. She never failed to text me every day, multiple times, so I knew silence from me would send that hamster spinning.

While out of state, she texted me a couple of times before the phone was cut off, but who responds when out of state? I didn’t receive any texts from her when my phone was turned back on. It had been off for only a couple of days, so I guessed she sent five or six random “how’s your day going” and “what’s up” texts before she just gave up. Honestly, I was happy not to get any more annoyingly lame texts from her, but I still wondered how much she was wigging out. I’d find out that weekend, when GMAC called me on Saturday. He called to tell me about the previous night, hanging with Hot Mess, FemFan, and the rest of the FemiCunt Clan.

“Hey man, your girl was worried. She kept asking if I had heard from you, or if you said anything about her.”

“Ha, my phone had been off, but once it came back on I didn’t bother texting her.”

“She was crying at the bar. It was bad, man. She kept saying how you were going to leave her, and how this had happened to her before.”

“Really? HAHAHAHAHAAAAA.”

I’m not claiming that this was all part of the plan, but once I was headed down that rode I just kept going. And that road led me to employ some tight game, and for her to dread the worse: pump and dump. But once I knew it was working, I texted her to see what was going on. Obviously she asked how soon I could come over.

There were so many opportunities that I took advantage of. After we hooked up the first night, I told her that she had some prickly pubes and had to “shave that shit.” Of course she complained, and said that she always left her bush hairy (it wasn’t like a 70’s porno, but it was still too much). So the next time we banged she had it shaved reasonably well so it wasn’t a problem. “I did this for you,” she said. Of course she did, but for some reason she felt that once was enough. My dick thought differently.

I was at her place one Saturday evening. She wanted to show me off to her friends, so I let her. But not without a quickie. Once we got to the bar, we had a good time drinking, dancing, and all of that boring stuff. Since we were horny, we left early and went back to her place, ready to bone again. She got on top of me and started sliding me in.

It felt like my cock was entering the asshole of a porcupine. A million sharp pointy needles surrounded my dick, and I used all my strength to stop myself from crying out like a pansy.  Whatever strength I had left I used to throw her off me, so I could check and see how much skin I had salvaged.

“Jesus! I told you to shave that shit!”

“I know I know I’m sorry I forgot! I’m so sorry!”

A strong case of smack-a-bitchy-itis overcame me. You can’t mess with a man’s cock without consequences. But thankfully something reminded me that she was a feminist, and to be careful. I told her I was going to sleep.

After a few minutes I could feel the inner turmoil bubbling inside of her. “I’m really sorry,” she said, finally, struggling to hold back tears. “Just… just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it. I don’t want to lose you.”

I laid there for a couple of moments, thinking of how I could extract what I wanted in her moment of vulnerability. But I wasn’t depraved enough then, and I couldn’t think of anything. “I already told you what you have to do,” I said. “OK.” From then on I knew I had to shove it in her ass.

After FemFan moved in with FemFatty, she had me come over. She didn’t bother to tell me that she didn’t bring along her old bed and was waiting for a new one to arrive. Instead of a large comfortable king size, there was a comforter laid on the carpet, with another comforter on top, for added comfort, I guess. I told her that I needed to iron a shirt for work the next morning, but she didn’t have an ironing board. “You mean I should have asked you if you had a board before I came? Seriously, who has an iron but nothing to put the clothes on?” I slept on the floor, and ironed on it as well. Even in my poverty I slept comfortably and wore crisp shirts to work. But the next morning I awoke cranky thanks to the hard floor, and my shirt looked ridiculous. I told her I wouldn’t be coming back until she added the amenities that are common in third world countries not in Africa. A new bed arrived by the end of the week.

How she sounded during sex depended on if anyone was around. If FemFatty was in her room with the boy, FemFan was pretty silent. But when it was just the two of us, my persistent poundings produced all kinds of yelling, screaming, and expletives. I prefer my women to let the neighbors know my name. She told me about how FemFatty talked about hearing us one night. “She was like, ‘well, it sounded like really good sex!’ I don’t like it when she talks about us.” I asked her why not, but whatever she said didn’t make much sense, and there was no way I would remember it. But I do remember one night when we were banging on the new bed; the headboard kept clanking against the wall. She told me to stop, because we were making too much noise and she didn’t want FemFatty to hear.

“Just not too hard,” she said.

“Uhh, yeah, OK,” I said, and started again, harder and faster than before. No roommate matters more than my own nut. But she stopped me again:

“No, no, we can’t, it’s too much noise!”

“Fine,” I said, and rolled off her to go to sleep, visibly pissed off.

“I’m sorry, we can keep going, we just have to be slower and quiet.”

“Nah.” I could hear her holding back the whimpers.

Honestly, it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I had to deny her sex again to set her straight. Punishment, and ways to do it, crept into my thoughts from that night forward. I became more critical, and voiced my displeasure more often. “You’re really demanding,” she told me one day. “Yup,” I said. Punishing her became important to me, after sex, food, and the cash that she would give me. Whenever pounding her pooper, I went harder and faster when she begged me to be gentle. It was fun.

She knew my birthday was coming soon (I must have let it slip). I sensed that she wanted to do something special for me. So she got some details about it and forced her way into my schedule. It wasn’t as if I had anything else going on, since I could barely afford to ride the metro, but I knew that if we did hang out on my birthday, it would be a big step in her mind. The few days leading up to my birthday I thought about how to get out of it. She’d probably be hurt, but at that point I’d rather stay at home, jerk off, and get a good night’s sleep. The night before I texted her:

Let’s do (the night after my birthday) instead

Did someone give you a better offer?

Yeah

When I arrived the following night, I could tell that she was disappointed that I flaked. I guess she thought she was important enough to occupy my special day. But I didn’t anticipate what was waiting for me in her room: a bag of gifts. “Oh, you got me gifts…” I said. “Open them!” Great, I thought, I have to carry this bag on the metro back home? Of course the bag was some feminine teal color. But it wasn’t the color that got me worrying. I started worrying what could be in there, and what it would mean. I couldn’t believe that she bought me stuff like this. After all this time of instilling dread in her, she was throwing it back at me. Of course she didn’t realize it. She just wanted me to know she cared. But she was flipping the script. I felt sick.

I looked inside the bag. “Oh no! You got me… a… Snuggie?” I quickly searched my brain, examining all the interactions that we had had. How did she know I liked Snuggies? Did she read my post about Snuggie Season? Does she know I had a blog?? Then I remembered that I brought up the snuggie in some offhand comment, something about that and a thong being sexy. She ran with it. It wasn’t just some ordinary Snuggie, either. It was the Snuggie Deluxe.

But that wasn’t all. “Keep looking in the bag,” she said. I did, and pulled out a book: The Snuggie Sutra. I hope she doesn’t think we’ll be defiling that Snuggie together.

“The Snuggie Sutra? Haha… wow.”

“I knew you’d like it!”

I won’t lie. I looked forward to pulling this out one day, but not with her. With this act of genorisity, I knew her feelings for me were strong, but she was clearly trying to force me into an actual relationship that society expects from two people boning so often. I felt the dread I instilled in her coming full circle. She would have to be punished for it.

“The girl I’m seeing has friends that will come through,” I said. “But I don’t think I can get them over here, but they can definitely meet us somewhere on Saturday. I’d rather just go meet new chicks, though.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“She’s cool, I mean, but she’s not someone I’d bring out in public all the time. I keep her around but I’m not that excited. But I’ll hit her up and make sure she brings bitches.”

“Awesome. All I need is to just talk to them and I’m good,” he said. Which is true. Everyone who meets him likes him. The night we planned to meet them, VK and I witnessed a most ridiculous nighttime street pull. He jumped into his African King character, and then flipped back and forth between that character and himself, in a serious yet hilarious fashion. He was dropping gems like “I want to stick my spear in your booty” with a perfect accent. VK and I couldn’t stop laughing. It was so funny we had to cross the street and hide behind parked cars to avoid being a distraction. And to laugh more loudly. He has serious social skills. Without them, it would be impossible to run his own business while not being the best at instructing. If everyone feels good they will keep coming back.

But I wasn’t sure if he truly knew what he was up against in DC.

“Yeah, but they’re feminists.”

“You were mentioning that before. Hmmm. I’ve always wondered about feminism. Do you know what it really is?”

“I can’t really say,” I said. I really couldn’t think of anything.

“Well don’t they like more sex and being on the pill? I think that would be a good thing for guys, right?”

“You’d think so,” I said. “But if I were you I wouldn’t bring it up. Save it for post coital snuggle-talk.”

Like the nice guy I am, I had her and members of her FemiCunt Clan waiting about a half hour before we arrived. One thing I forgot to do was to tell FemFan what to wear. The previous times we were out in public, she looked decent. But not this night. The four inch heels were there, along with a short, tight, white miniskirt, which were fine. Good, actually. But it was her top that upset me: a red, baggy sweater that looked like a stringier form of cashmere that didn’t flatter her. A complete 80′s throwback that fit in with the worst fashion ideas of that decade. One would think she only cared about how her bottom half appeared, and said “fuck it” and threw on the first top she could find. To top it off, she had cut her hair a little bit, making it not even shoulder length anymore, and put it in a lazy ponytail. It was all unacceptable, but something I’d have to deal with later. I was there so Slick could get some.

FemFan had two friends with her. One was cute (cuter than FemFan) but dressed as like a typical feminist: sloppy. The other was not cute, but had a decent body, and wore clothes tight enough to hint at it. Definitely the fuglo of the FemiCunt Clan, at least from all the ones I met that I’d entertain the idea of smanging, but still doable. Basically a butterface.

CuteFemiCunt had a guy who looked fresh out of college with her. The dynamic was unmistakable: beta orbiter without a clue. When she went to the restroom, he tried to bridge the obvious divide and become friends. But it didn’t take long for him to creep me out.

“Yeah I know her from college,” he said. ”We used to stay in the same dorm. I don’t think she remembers me yet.” I thought about telling him not to bring that up, but I had Slick to look after. This boy had no chance, anyway, even if Slick wasn’t around.

Everyone got settled in and made introductions. Slick was next to CuteFemiCunt, and started chatting her up. “So Rookie says that you guys are feminists.” Here we go, I thought. CuteFemiCunt looked at me with the dual expressions of “are you for real” and “save me” on her face. I wasn’t about to do that, and I hoped that Slick would right the ship. He didn’t.

In the moment, I couldn’t understand why he didn’t listen to me. But looking back on it, if he thought it wouldn’t be a problem, I can understand. Back where I’m from, you just don’t meet any feminists. You may not run into the most attractive girls, but the area is filled with people who accept the gender differences. There’s a lot of military, and a lot of girls that like roles that accompany that lifestyle. And you know that feminists hate that so they fled to DC to congregate and man-hate. There was just no way for him to truly understand how bad of a topic that was to start a conversation. I also think he was genuinely curious. But I steered the conversation away and included everyone to keep it fun. It helps when you’re wearing a crazy shirt that generates compliments.

I glanced over at Slick, who might have been sitting there quietly for the first time in his life. His eyes were wide as he stared at the floor, pondering how the hell it had gone so wrong so quickly. His hand was scratching his head the same way cartoon characters do when they’re stumped. In all the years I’ve known him, not once did I see him not be the center of attention with everyone having a great time. Welcome to DC.

Despite keeping the group entertained, I made a mistake. I lost track of time. It wasn’t exactly closing time, but it was late, and the girls wanted to engorge on some grease. They suggested Ben’s Chili Bowl, and Slick agreed. Just what I wanted to do.

Slick had pretty much given up on CuteFemiCunt, and let the boy try to talk to her, while he chatted up the butter. ButterFemiCunt took pride in telling him, a black guy, about the history of the restaurant. And she really knew a lot about it, the culture, the black man’s struggle. Something told me that I should have been embarrassed, but I was distracted by not wanting to go there to eat, and being next to FemFan and her ridiculous outfit.

As we walked up to the restaurant, we noticed a limo parked outside on the curb. Slick saw the opportunity for a well-timed joke, and let it fly:

“Whoever’s in that limo is like: ‘yeah, it’s about that time ladies,’” he said, while clapping his hands to get everyone excited. “’It’s time to get to work and make that money! Yeah, and you better not come back until you make as much as you can!’”

I wanted to burst out laughing, but held back as much as I could. But I couldn’t stop the huge grin, because even though I thought it was hilarious, I knew where this was going.

FemFan immediately got in his face. “I don’t think that’s funny. At all,” she said, visibly upset. You could hear the fight in her voice. The other two FemiCunts joined in to express their displeasure. Slick’s eyes showed his disappointment. Such a joke, such timing, couldn’t possibly lead to such vitriol. He was being booed off the stage, by CUNTS! I felt for him, but quickly steered the convo back to the food, and we all went inside.

As far as I was concerned, the night was over. Slick had already moved on, talking to various people in the place, and would have stayed all night talking, but I was ready to leave. The boy was doing his best with CuteFemiCunt, probably talking about all the times they passed each other in their dorms, and the times he said “hi” to her but she probably didn’t hear him. But none of the girls were giving my boy any play, so why stay? I told FemFan that we were out. “Why??” Duh.

Outside, Slick and I talked about how the night went. “Rookie, you remind me a lot of my younger brother. You just don’t give a fuck.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. When you said we were leaving, FemFan looked like someone had killed her grandma. She looked at me, and begged with her eyes, pleading, for me to do something to convince you to stay. I looked at her gestured back that I’d love to help her out but I can’t.”

“Yeah, I mean, her girls weren’t into you, so there’s no point on hanging out with them. Did you see what FemFan was wearing?”

“Yeah, and I get it, I can see why you aren’t all that excited. And you were right about not bringing up feminism. I totally dropped the ball.”

“Man you should have seen your face,” I said. “You really looked stumped!”

“I was! I couldn’t believe it.”

—–

Later, FemFan told me that, of all people, the boy was upset the most when we left. “He was really disappointed. He had a bottle at his place and wanted everyone to come back and join.”

“He probably wanted our help with CuteFemiCunt.”

“Yeah, and it’s funny, because she told me she wasn’t into him at all. It was weird.”

Let’s be clear: I never wanted to befriend and converse with feminists. Why would any self-respecting man want to? Every now and then I would run into an attractive feminist, who was not dressing up to her potential, think something like “she’s an idiot” and “what a waste,” and move on. However, in her eagerness to parade me in front of her friends, FemFan thrust me behind enemy lines, a place I did not want to be.

I braced myself for the inevitable clashes that would occur. You can’t watch the news without being inundated with gender wars bait. The other day I was watching a video about a little girl staring down a lion at a zoo. Though she was protected behind the glass, the lion tried to rip her apart with his paws. The anchorman said he would have ran away screaming “like a little girl,” which prompted the anchorwoman to ask him why it couldn’t he run away like a little boy. FemFan had the news on every morning, and every evening as well.

Surprisingly, FemFan didn’t try to start much, at first. Instead, she seemed to go out of her way to please me. Pleasing a man seemed like heresy to me, and that reinforced what I already knew: I was the prize in this relationship. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t any tension. For instance, one day she texted me the following:

I need a massage

Lemme know if you find a good one

Haha, I take it you lack massage skills? Obviously, I would return the favor.

What can I say? I have always been the receiver

I’m a feminist, remember? Equal massages both ways.

I’m not a feminist, remember? Unequal pay and double standards all day every day

I hope you’re joking.

I guess getting u to iron my shirts is out of the question LOL

She laughed, and went on saying that she isn’t good with domestics, only kids. I didn’t respond.

At that point, I cared about what she thought a little bit, hoping not to ruin a good thing all because of her feminist leanings, but soon I could not care less. While watching a news report on some woman who accomplished a lot of things yet wasn’t attractive, FemFan gushed praise on her, as if she was someone to look up to. And then she asked if I agreed and if I thought her smarts made her hot.

“Those smarts and accomplishments? They don’t do anything for me.”

“Really,” she asked, seemingly shocked. “Well they should.”

“Well… they don’t.”

She wasn’t angry. She just looked at the floor, disappointed. I imagined, hoped, that perhaps a little of her beliefs of what men wanted would change. It must have been a difficult thing for her to hear. I grabbed the remote and turned on Aliens.

FemFan liked to tell me of all the creepers who hit on her. During these times I convinced myself that game oversaturation wasn’t a real risk. There’s such a large group of adult boys who haven’t gotten far with it. Sure, they may be approaching, but those approaches are so poor because they aren’t using things that actually work. At least with the approach alone, they were making an effort, a point I made to FemFan. She didn’t take to it.

“That’s really what feminists want: not being hit on by creepers all of the time.”

“Talking to people you don’t like is part of life. How else are guys supposed to learn to meet women?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I just don’t like it. There should be a law against it.” I felt like unloading on her, but refrained. No point on starting an argument. I just wanted to have sex and sleep.

It seemed as if these conversations became more frequent. I had to start controlling what we watched. Maybe there was something about violence and women or something, I don’t remember, but she alluded to men being violent against women or whatever. I told her that the fear goes both ways, and brought up the most famous villain championed by men. I was shocked that she never heard of her.

“You’ve never heard of Lorena Bobbit??”

“No. Never.” I told her the story, and even pulled it up on Wikipedia. “No no stop I don’t want to hear it,” she said, while closing her eyes and cupping her ears with her hands.

“Guys have a real fear about this. We believe feminists are like this, and if they had the chance, would pass out free cutlery at clinics.”

“No, no! I love penis! I love men!” I believed her because I had earlier concluded that she was a fan of some aspects of feminism, a grunt in the trenches fighting a war that she really didn’t understand. Sure, she was studying women’s studies at the graduate level, but if Rommel could advance Germany’s front lines without knowing about the holocaust, then maybe a rank-and-file feminist could fight without being a full-blown feminazi. She could be towing the line because that’s what women do, and “equality” sounds awesome. Cheering on a cock-cutting wasn’t an idea that seemed possible to her.

Conversations like these were a little interesting, but the real fun came whenever her roommate was around. FemFan moved in with this roommate soon after we started seeing each other. She looked like the love spawn of your typical ugly rock star and a fan, the ones the rockers would never acknowledge. The Penguin had more loving parents. I cursed the makers of yoga pants whenever she wore them (all the time). OctoMom could only dream of the having the child-bearing hips of this feminist. I’d be shocked if she looked at herself in the mirror once a month. The bitter scowl across her face was a permanent fixture, even when she cackled. She was a fat, fugly feminist. Her fiancé was an alright looking dude, best described as a boy. At one time he ate meat like a man but weaned himself from it for love. That’s all you need to know about that pansy.

From day one FemFan complained to me about her roommate FemFatty. She was a controlling nightmare. “So why did you move in with her,” I asked. FemFan just didn’t think she’d be such a controlling bitch. I took full advantage whenever I could.

Shockingly, they had a football game on when I walked in one Sunday evening. The Steelers were playing, and you know how much feminists love to skewer accused rapists. But none of that began until an image of Matt Ryan appeared on the screen.

“There’s an overrated quarterback if I ever saw one,” I said.

“I went to Boston College and we love Matt Ryan he’s the best!” FemFatty said.

“But he’s soooo boring! Have you seen his commercials?” It was all light-hearted (on my part), but I could tell FemFan knew her roommate was about to pop. At that moment, Ben Roethlisberger appeared on the screen.

“Oh my GAWD why is he even playing?? He should be in JAIL!” FemFatty said.

“He wasn’t convicted,” I said.

“Yeah, because most of these rapists never go to jail! Look at the statistics!” She took an obvious defensive posture that matched her ingrained scowl.

A hush fell over the room with no one willing to break the tension.

“Matt Ryan still sucks.”

I wondered how often FemFatty’s fiancé endured these random acts of man-hating. Were they daily occurrences? I knew he wasn’t challenging her or standing up for men, or himself. If anything, he probably agreed that he was a rapist and never prodded her for sex. Can’t have a rape on the conscience.

Whenever the opportunity presented itself, I took advantage of FemFatty’s cold and cunty nature. Early one Sunday morning, she knocked on FemFan’s door and came in to tell us about some TV show that was on. Bridezillas or Say Yes to the Dress or something. Before she could get into it, I said “room service? Awesome! I’ll take an OJ and some bacon,” and then leaned back with a grin. Her jaw dropped, and she stared at FemFan wide-eyed. She started to shake as she stood there stunned, unsure of how to react. I laughed.

After she left, FemFan begged me not to tease her. “Please, please don’t do that!”

“Why not? I like teasing her. It’s so easy to tease her.”

“I know I know, but I have to live with her. You don’t know what it’s like.” I didn’t care to find out.

That’s pretty much how I interacted with these feminists. I didn’t care how sexist I sounded, because I was entertained by their reactions to my non-political correctness. I didn’t make it a point to say something sexist, I just was and was unapologetic. And it’s not like they could have said anything to me about it. I’m black. But while I relished in making them uncomfortable, things were different when I tried to set up a friend for a bang with one of FemFan’s femicunts.

I kept thinking about the many times I had hung out with Roosh, and how he paced himself with alcohol. It didn’t look fun. But being cold and calculating clearly affected his results. It didn’t take me long to realize this, or want to implement a limit on myself. The problem was everyone I was hanging out with kept buying rounds. Sure I paid for my share as well, but when people are handing you another beer out of nowhere don’t think I didn’t want to drink it.

This made going out on Saturdays during the day a problem. But what about during the week?

I’d leave work with the plan to swing by the coffee shop, check out the scene for an hour or so, write, and then head home to work out or do something else productive. And most days I felt up to that, or at least I thought I did. But I felt like a zombie on the metro ride home. Staring at a computer monitor most of the day made would tire me out so much I wouldn’t even read my Kindle. But then I discovered, or just reminded myself, how much good coffee does me. And with my MacBook Air I’d have no excuse about my laptop being too heavy to lug around all day.

So, right after work I’ll head to my neighborhood coffee shop for some caffeine and writing, and to work on some early evening game. I’m confident that early evening game will be good practice. I used to do it a while ago while in school. Plenty of people are in there, getting wired for whatever the evening has for them. I have a fond memory of early evening game at this same coffee shop, where I opened a girl effortlessly, only for her to ask if I had asked her that same question before. I can’t wait for more opportunities like that.

If I don’t find myself engrossed in some meaningful conversation, or no one hits me up for a happy hour, I’ll head home with enough energy for a decent workout. I figured out why I had stopped working out. Obviously it was because I was tired. But I had forgotten that I could do something about it. Or perhaps I chose not to so I could watch Mad Men and Californication multiple times and finally watch some of the other series that people keep talking about. Either way I have the solution for moving forward.

One of these weeknights I need to go out for a couple of drinks, alone. It’s about time I make solo dolo nights a staple. Every once in a while I head out alone, but it’s not often enough and there’s no way I will get confidence unless I do it regularly. I have to make it a habit. It seems as if every time I’m geared up to go alone, someone hits me up and I join them. I have a great time, but the following morning I realize that another day has passed without working on that goal. I can now make up for that during the week.

Weekend nights need to be revamped. Friday nights are out for me. This is amateur night, and every time I go out on Friday it feels like a waste of time. And it’s only because I can compare it to Saturday nights, when girls appear to be actively working to be picked up. If there’s two girls out, we know that someone wants to get laid. Or at least meet someone. I feel as if I’ve done enough approaches so that I don’t need to waste my time on Friday nights getting blown out of big groups of girls who just want to have fun with themselves, when it’s so much easier on Saturday nights. It’s time to play smarter. I think it says something when I’d rather be at home on Friday nights ironing and passing out at 11 than out getting plastered. Perhaps I’m getting old even though my baby face says otherwise. Or maybe I’m realizing the incredible amount of time I’ve wasted in my younger years. I think it’s just that I feel like I need to be doing more of something else.

This leaves one day not spoken for: Sundays. Now that football is practically over, Sundays need some love. Perhaps some day game at the clothing stores. At least going to a bar when Monday is a holiday (which I failed to do on New Years). Or maybe catch up on those things I was supposed to do on Friday but didn’t because I went out, got plastered, and spent all day Saturday recovering. I think Sundays should be open for whatever. I just don’t want that “whatever” to be sitting on the couch watching TV, like I was on Sunday typing this post.

I’m not sure you noticed this, but I’m implementing this plan in the dead of winter. The time of year when the cold air convinces millions to stay inside (women, men, myself, VK). It’s the time of year that I dread it the most. But that’s why I’m doing it. I call it atoning for my sins of last year. I need to go through the fire to cleanse myself of all the impurities of waste from the past few months. And an ice cold DC winter is the only fire I can think of right now. If I can implement this plan in the harshest conditions… No, if I can’t implement this plan in the harshest conditions, then I need to shut my blog down.

“Fuck it. Let’s do this,” I said.

“YES!” VK wrote back.

I really can’t afford it, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I thought.

It would take me the entire summer to finally cross that bridge. And the fall.

How bad was the hole that I put myself? Let’s just say that those two weeks I spent partying with VK and GMAC ruined my summer. When we came back, I told myself that I’d hide in my apartment until I dug back out from my debt hole. It was a pretty good plan, except that sometimes, life just happens. You have to pay for the unexpected. Bills and taxes start piling up. Digging out requires you to temporarily dig farther down. And then, sometimes, usually, I’m my own worst enemy.

Just when I think I’m getting back to where I need to be, July 4th arrives. It’s a three day weekend, in the middle of summer. The sun is out. The pools are open. The tourists are in town. What was I supposed to do? Sit at save at home? Is that what you would have done? Don’t lie to yourself. Of course you would have partied all weekend. And that’s what I did.

But that wasn’t the real reason why I’m usually my own worst enemy. The problem was, I got paid that weekend, and I was determined to blow my entire paycheck. It was a fully deliberated conscious decision. Bars, clubs, pool parties, drinking, more bars. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. Monday night I stayed out dolo, until the end of the night, spitting game. Whatever the cost, I didn’t care. That weekend culminated into the single worst mistake of the summer. I didn’t check my bank account for days, not wanting to face the truth.

This type of all-out irresponsibility for me was unprecedented. I had never been so reckless with my cash. A few years ago I was picking pennies off the streets and throwing them in the stock market, buying foreign oil companies and basking in the dividends while regular folks complained about gas prices. Now? I was sitting at home, drinking alone, wondering when they would cut the lights back on.

How did I let myself get to that point? Well, for the past few years, I simply charged everything to Sallie Mae. Hey, when you’re going to grad school with massive amounts of school loans, what’s another thousand? Three? Ten? I knew I’d be working again and getting paid once school was over.

Except that that didn’t happen. The job that I had lined up fell through around graduation time. I hoped that I would find something else soon, but I had a feeling that it would be a while. Of course I’d spend my waking hours pondering over my future. Would I have to move back home, in shame? Live with Mom and Dad? In a smaller town where there’s not too much to do? Go home as a complete failure? The magic eight ball said “signs point to yes.” I had to drastically scale back my plans that summer. It was depressing. Not even foreign travel would cheer me up. Instead, the problems compounded.

Over the course of those eight months of unemployment, I had pent up demand for blowing money fast. Drinks, clothes, travel, dates, everything that I was missing out on, boiled inside me. By the time I started working, and decided to travel again with VK and GMAC, I knew I wasn’t going to hold back. I could have said “no,” but sometimes you need to scream. This was my way of screaming. We all know that it’s only a temporary solution, but it feels good in the moment. No matter how fleeting, sometimes you just do it.

Regardless of the situation, every other weekend or so I just had to go out, whether it was a cheap or free happy hour on hump day, or one Saturday night just to see what I was missing. These nights didn’t help. I found myself drinking more than usual. The combination of rock-bottom prices, and fatties and fuglos, created a situation where I’d keep blowing money just to make it better. The next morning, I was surprised at how much I spent. But I think all of this worked out for me, because I started thinking about what I was doing, and what I needed to do. I needed to be better with my money, obviously, but I also knew that I needed to put myself in better situations to meet women. The cheap happy hours didn’t attract what I was looking for. Instead of cute girls interested in meeting someone, I found large groups of friends and co-workers, fat chicks and average girls. I needed better venues. I needed to focus on day game. I’d reserve the bars for Sundays, when I could also watch the games. It’s not like it would have been a waste of time. Friday nights would be a great time for chores and writing. Without being tired and hungover, Saturdays would be used for more writing and day game. Saturday nights? Maybe I’d go out, maybe not. Sundays I’d watch the games where the girls would be at. During the week, I’d go to the coffee shop after work and polish off some of my writing. Other nights I’d work on a foreign language and other self improvement activities. I’d spend some money on upgrading my wardrobe.

I came to that realization around August. The plan was to be out of the hole by the middle of September. I would focus more time on day game. I would begin to write. And as usual, none of that went according to plan. I was getting out of the hole, but I found FemFan taking up my weekends. Work demanded more hours. By the time the weekend rolled around, I would lack the drive to do much of anything. It would take me a little longer that I had anticipated to get back in the swing of things. And just as I was being more responsible, it was time to blow two paychecks worth in Miami.

During this time when I was supposed to be organizing my life, the wild weekends were padded by weeks of kicking myself for being so reckless. I couldn’t concentrate on much besides finding ways of financing what I wanted right then and there. I had no idea how much mental energy I was wasting until I was out talking with some girl and she asked me about my hobbies. It wasn’t a question that I had gotten often, but what stumped me was the realization that I had stopped doing everything. Reading, writing, learning, everything, was stopped. I was at a loss for words not so much because I had no truthful response, but because I was dissappointed in myself for letting it get to that point, and not actually realizing it until that moment.

The craziest thing about my situation was within one year, I went from being unemployed and depressed, to being paid more than ever and depressed. In August I moved up from a job that was just barely paying the bills to one with plenty of spare change. And I was getting regular tail. But I had gotten away from taking care of basic things, and everything suffered. Finances, hobbies, even my game, all slipped. I even stopped reading books.

I concluded that I just hadn’t adjusted to life after gradschool. The Sallie Mae security blanket was gone, and, shockingly, I had to start paying her back. Working meant I had to wake up early, so I couldn’t go out on week nights like I had been doing and function properly in my cubicle. With no more classses, I couldn’t ignore professors and blog while in class. No longer could I work out in the early afternoon, take a nap and watch some TV, and then start writing and hit the bars. I was back in the real world, and I didn’t adjust. The only things that helped me cope were bags of well fitting clothes and bottles of cheap vodka.

This was definitely a lost summer and fall for me. A colossal waste of time and resources. But it was a time I spent finding myself learning experience that I will use going forward. It’s about time to be responsible and use my time wisely. And hit on girls. It’s about time that I return.

When he said that they were feminists, I was a little hesitant. I mean, they are feminists. A group of women that we constantly rag on. The cause of so much of the misunderstandings and frustrations that we men deal with on a constant basis. There are blogs devoted to daily fighting back the scourge that feminism has wrought. Hell, at one point I swore I’d run from a feminist if I came across one.

The problem was I couldn’t remember why. It had been so long since I had actually interacted with a known feminist, that I had completely forgotten why I had stayed away. So when GMAC told me about them, all I could think was sex, the pill, and abortions. Staircases and wire hangers. In other words, I wouldn’t have to worry about the next 18 years.

So I headed out with GMAC, and met the group of women. I had my choice of three single girls, and each were excited that I was there. I chose the tall thin one, and I knew that it was going to be easy. She kept smiling, kept talking, and we bought each other a round. She couldn’t believe that last part, about her buying me a drink. Like it was going against what women are supposed to do, or feminism, or something.

I ran absolutely no game. If anything, I just did what Roosh said tight game boils down to: good chat. Except that I didn’t use any of my routines or standard material. The conversation just flowed naturally from topic to topic. We chatted about the bands that were performing, her graduate studies in women, my job, and other general observations. She said that she wasn’t really a true-blood feminazi; she’s more of a fan of feminism. Or maybe post-feminism. Whatever that is. FemFan told me something about it, but I only remember parts of it. It’s a strategy I use so I can tease her about her beliefs later, by misstating something she said earlier. Works like a charm.

By the end of the night, we hadn’t had much physical contact. Her whole group of friends was right there with us, and I wasn’t about to start making out with her in front of them. As it turns out, she made the move herself. We stood in the middle, surrounded by her group, and she pulled me in for the sloppy makeout. Later, she told me that she didn’t care if that group of friends saw us. And she told the girls that she was going home with me. Stopping the cockblock before it could even begin.

There’s a couple of interesting things about FemFan. She’s about my height, and wears heels at least 3 inches, all of the time. She has a ton of them. I couldn’t believe my eyes when she saw all of the pairs. It’s very non-DC of her. And it makes sense because she’s from the midwest, and has only been here for a year.

The other interesting thing is she takes my seed like a solider. All of it. Not one complaint.

From what I know of her, I really don’t care if she’s a feminist or not. Because in the end, all I want is a good-looking girl that I can raw dog on my constant beck and call. And she’s ready and eager to be that girl.

WTF she had the nerve to tell you [REDACTED]!!!  UM yeah that’s worth a phone call, WOW. She said that and then [REDACTED]!!! double WOW!!! yeah we need to talk lunch break anytime after 12 hit me up… Jesus

Click the link to find out what happened.

After this debacle, I had been giving Lil Sis the silent treatment. She would hit me up, wanting to go out. I’d set something up, then flake. Later, we’d make tentative plans, and then they would fall through, with her being at fault. Round and round it went. The last time I flaked on her she sent me text after text showing her disappointment.

And then, I went out of town. To Vegas. She sent me a text, asking if I was out of town, because her sister was coming in town that weekend. I didn’t respond.

The next weekend, I went out of town again. Still silent.

When I came back, I was ready to restart it. So I sent her the following text:

Me: I don’t know about you, but I think we’ve been doing a crappy job at hanging out lately

Her (immediately): Agreed!

Obviously it was all good, so the next evening I picked her up and took her to my place to hang out. She didn’t have her purse with her, and for a second I thought I should tell her to get it. Nah, she won’t need it, I thought. It’s not like we’re going out on a Tuesday night.

When we got to my place, I made myself a drink and asked her if she wanted one. “I’m not thirsty,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone, while leaning away from me with her chin up, eyes narrowing. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I knew that it wasn’t good.

“So what do you wanna do?” she asked.

“Let’s figure out what to watch.”

“We could always go out…” it was only 6:30.

“Did you bring your ID? You didn’t bring your purse.”

“I didn’t think I needed it. Why didn’t you tell me to bring it?”

“Why don’t you always carry it?”

“I dunno… we could always go back and get it…” Yeah right.

While figuring out what to watch, she pulled out her phone to show me pictures of her and her sister partying hard while I was out of town. She told me about the games she and Big Sis would play with the guys to grab all of the attention and free drinks. One of those games was to take pictures with 10 guys. She said they did that because she was bored. And then pics of the afterparty at some dudes’ house. And then the pics from the following night when they met up with GMAC. Then she told me how much she hated him. And how mad she was when he ditched them. And how they had a bouncer drive them home. And how that bouncer didn’t have much to say, and was just lame.

“And I wasn’t supposed to tell you this,” she began, “but that night I texted you when you were out of town, I had a threesome.”

The only thing I could think was to remain calm under pressure. The last thing I wanted to betray was shock, anger, or anything that would be beta. So I said the only thing that I thought would be appropriate.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t ask for details, or ask open-ended questions. I honestly don’t know what else was said about it. I just know that it wasn’t much. I got the feeling that she wanted me to say something about it, but I didn’t give her the satisfaction. It wasn’t as if she was my girlfriend. Instead, we found a movie and watched it.

We got comfortable on my smaller couch, with her relaxing in my lap. But I got a sense that it was forced, and I was forcing it. This bothered me while the movie was on. As did some of our conversation, where she mentioned how we were friends, and something about how friends should treat each other. This wasn’t unusual. She said that we were “friends” before, along with “buddies,” but this time, it felt like a signal. Adding the fact that she refused to drink, I got the feeling that I wasn’t about to get any.

After the movie, I made my move and started making out with her. She squirmed and pulled away. I gave her the side-eye, and we made out some more. But then she pulled away again, grunting in frustration. “You know it’s been a while,” I told her. “I know…” I tried again, and this time she shoved me away with “no” and “stop.”

We sat on the couch, and she told me that she didn’t prepare herself for the sex. When I asked her what she meant, she just looked down at her crouch. Then she said that she needed to be drunk for these types of things, and we should have gone to a bar.

“I’m not good with this. Why didn’t you just tell me what you wanted?” she asked.

“I thought it was obvious.”

“True… Now I’m afraid you won’t hang out with me anymore.”

We just sat on the couch. I was pretty upset, and wasn’t even horny anymore. After a bit, I left her and went to my room. She followed eventually, 10 minutes later, and stood in the doorway, looking worried, wondering what I was doing. I told her that I was listening to some music, and asked her if she had heard of The Weeknd. She said she hadn’t, so I put some on.

Then she got snide with me. “You like a lot of R&B, don’t you.” I flashed her an angry look and told her it was time for her to go.

That was the final time we hung out together.

I was content that there just wasn’t anything there to pursue. Sure, there where good looking girls roaming the streets during lunch every now and then. Flanked by their hyperactive male coworkers, they are pretty tough targets.

But there was one mysterious woman who worked on my floor. I had caught glimpses of her every now and then: a flick of her hair as she turned the corner, a little leg as she stepped aboard the elevator. I kept my imagination from running wild. Holding out hope seemed silly, given the overwhelming body of evidence proving that there wasn’t much that would make the blood rush to my dick.

For a small office, it certainly took us a while to cross paths. But it finally happened when we were both leaving. She joined me on the elevator. I took a good look at her: very pretty face, long blonde hair, a true hourglass figure. But I was already happy with the younger girls that I was working. That’s a shame, I thought. She is the definition of a Hot Older Woman.

She started asking me questions: how long I had worked at that office, what I did, etc. I did my best to encourage the convo, and we continued on the metro, as we were both going in the same direction. I wasn’t sure if she was just talking to be talking, but it didn’t matter, because the longer it went on, the more I thought about smanging it, and the more I wanted to. She told me all about herself, her cats (yes, more than one), that she used to teach at some community college back home a while back, and who was her favorite rapper. I suggested that she burn me a CD, because I wasn’t quite sold on his lyrical prowess. She told me that she would do it, and that gave me a simple pretext to swing by her office sometime.

The next Friday, I did just that, complaining that she hadn’t burned me the promised CD, and how disappointed I was in her for her failure. She laughed, and we started talking about her music collection. Specifically, the trouble she was having with all of her music, CDs, three laptops, and iTunes, and how it had prevented her from burning the disc. I told her that I might be able to help her with all of it.

“Do you think, if I brought them in, you could take a look at them here?”

“Probably not. I do have to do actual work here.”

“Haha true. Maybe after work? Or the weekend?”

I suggested that I could swing by on Sunday, and she said she might be free then. We tentatively made plans, and she gave me the CD to copy. I had already downloaded it a while back, so I went back to my desk to act like I was burning it.

After a while I went back to her office to give her the original, and she had just changed clothes, getting ready to go out. Makeup, hair, everything was transformed. Heels at least three inches high. And the cocktail dress was almost too low-cut. Her massive rack was barely contained. A lesser man might have immediately offered two hands to help keep them in. I simply thought of motorboating them as we hammered out the details of my housecall. Sunday afternoon. She would text me.

———————-

My roommate and I did the DC tour that night. It usually happens on Friday nights, when not one bar has anything decent going on. If you’ve been in DC, you’ve probably experienced a night like this. No matter where you go, it all looks the same, but you keep telling yourself that there’s one bar out there that’s decent, and you’re going to find it. Ultimately, it’s a poor strategy to keep bouncing around. Precious time is wasted in travel and parking. But on this night, we just had to do it. We went everywhere in DC, and finally ended in Adams Morgan.

That’s where I ran into The Professor, in a side street leaving, with some Urkel looking guy. And she was trashed. “Heeeyyyy!” she shouted as she grabbed my arm. I gave her a hug, and then watched Urkel take five steps back. As I said “hi” to both, I could see Urkel’s hamster wheel spinning, trying to build a defense to the foreseen robbery. His determination was obvious in his facial expressions. He had been here before, and had lost.

Luckily for him, he was going up against a rookie. And she was too drunk to hold a conversation. As she repeated how she knew me, Urkel let his frustration fly. “Yeah. I know. You said that already,” he repeated. I tried to stear the convo away from his sour mood, mentioning the club we were headed to, and that they should join us. But it wasn’t good enough, and the excitement slowly faded from her. She seemed confused, as if asking herself why her friend was being lame. It all became somewhat awkward, and she seemed ready to leave. We hugged and parted.

“Man,” my roommate said as we headed towards the clubs. “I had a feeling, after you told me about her today, that you would run into her. I just knew it. Too bad her friend was being a dick.”

“Yeah, too bad,” I said. But I didn’t care. I knew that Sunday was locked down, and more importantly, he wasn’t going to hit it. Not even Hollywood could come up with a believable situation where he would.

But then comes the Three Date Rule. It’s not the Three Date Guideline, but a Rule. And when there’s a rule, there’s the inevitability of creativity that many of us use to stay within the rule, and avoid the guilt and shame that comes with breaking it still and not getting laid. “Don’t be a chump,” you tell yourself. And then you wonder what your friends are saying about you: “what a chump.”

However, most of us should consider ourselves as rebelious. Rules are there to be broken. And I totally agree with that mentality. But it’s important to know why a rule exists, so when you do break it, it will be to your advantage, and not your detriment. I believe that there are two main reasons why the 3DR exists:

1. Too much time pursuing one girl means time not spent pursuing others.
2. Beyond three dates, you have to play by her rules to get laid, which means your confidence plummets while you try beta tactics to appease her.

I think these reasons are self-explanatory, and they lead to who the 3DR is meant for: up-and-coming players.

I’ve been using the 3DR lately, leading to harsh ways of me cutting girls off who aren’t spreading their legs. More on that later. But back to my friend, I told him to stick with the 3DR. And yet I began thinking of situations where I think breaking it might do more good than harm. After all, rules are meant to be broken, and she was cute and clearly interested. So I came up with three good reasons to break the Three Date Rule. Consider these reasons and compare them with where you are on your path to alphadom.

She’s a really good girl who’s possibly marriage material.

Sure, we sleep around with sluts, whores, and slores. And we’d never let them meet our parents. But occasionally, you might meet a girl who, if you decided to settle down, would be just about perfect. The type of girl who hasn’t been riding the cock carousel, and doesn’t plan on buying a ticket for it. After years in the game, she’s as close to being “the one” as you’ve ever seen.

Naturally, she could be riding that cock carousel, and doesn’t want you to know about it. That’s a pretty significant risk. But figuring out the truth isn’t that difficult unless you’re blinded by passion. If she isn’t spending most of her time with you, she’s probably getting it from somewhere else. Or she’s a virgin.

You’re getting sex from other women.

If your sack is being consistently drained, it’s likely that you’ll be on a date and have no desire to get laid. Or you might want to, but your body is holding you back. In this situation, your confidence shouldn’t be affected at all. If anything, you’re denying her the chance of getting some dick. If that doesn’t get the juices in her nether region flowing then you have more problems than you know.

You really enjoy her company (and not because of the anticipation of glorious sex).

This is the toughest situation, because you might be lying to yourself. You’ll have to sit back and ask yourself some sobering questions. Are you excited when you’re around her, panting and salivating like a dog desirous of attention? Do your dates with her end with you hiding your massive boner in shame? Did you go home and cry after you masturbated? Or can you share activities as if she’s a cool friend? You might have to ask your friends to get to the cold, hard truth. But I think many of us have experienced the company of a fun girl who we could go to the movies together and enjoy each other’s company without expectations. Unfortunately, I don’t realize this until after I’ve banged her.

There’s also the possibility that she’s had some emotional experience and been hurt, and has erected the walls of Troy to protect herself. I don’t consider this a good reason to break the 3DR, unless you want a potential psycho on your hands after you finally bang her.

Rules exist for a reason. Understand those reasons and how they apply to you, so you don’t shoot yourself in the foot and have to shoot into an old sock.

Until a girl replied two weeks later.

I had to re-read the message I sent, and her profile, to try to reconstruct the frame of mine I had when I first sent the message. I thought it would be easy, but it wasn’t. Conversations aren’t supposed to be drawn out for weeks. Nevertheless, I took another look at her picture, and that long, curly hair, and plunged ahead. She was clearly interested, and we set up the date.

It was a mistake to read as much as I did in that interest. For some reason, I concluded that she would be waiting for me, at the bar with a cold drink meant for me, wondering if I would be another guy to flake on her. After I drove up 15 minutes late and parked my car, she sent me a text: runnin a little late sorry. The “a little late” balooned into 40 minutes before I saw a girl waiting to cross the street alone. I figured that it had to be her.

Then I hoped that it wasn’t her.

I saw a girl with an OK body staring down at her phone. It wasn’t that bad. I mean, this is a girl from an online dating site. But then I noticed the hair: chopped up, short, and boyish. My fears came true when she greeted me. If my inner game was stronger, I may have just hopped in the car and drove away, but the prospects of sex kept me around. As the date progressed, I started noticing things that made me wish I hadn’t stayed. Like the subtle shaking. Nerves? I don’t know, but it seemed to be more than that. Fingers, hands, arms, head. It was all there. Shaking.

But then I remembered something: sex might be possible. So I shoved aside the flaws. Until she started talking about her hair, and how she had cut it two months ago. Because she was frustrated with her job. And how her job kept her constantly on call for something. She mentioned that as she read an email her boss had just sent her. Cutting her hair seemed to give her a source of pride. She had to be a true feminist.

However, the body was good enough for me. I thought that, if I just stared at her boobs, it would make the suffering go by faster. And if she complained about me being a typical male perv, I’d say that her boobs reminded me that I was on a date with an actual female, as her boyish haircut was filling me with doubt. And with today’s advancements in sex change surgery, I couldn’t be sure until I saw what was in those jeans. So if she wanted me to appreciate her mind sooner, it would be in her interests to show me the goods as soon as possible. I wish things had gone down that way.

Instead, we just headed to another bar. This was a part of town that I was unfamiliar with; it was closest to where she was, and there weren’t any options for dancing to allow for faster touching. I’m sure there’s a lesson in that somewhere. We settled on a bar that was having trivia night, a game that everyone thought would be lame. But they played it anyway. It was the only thing to keep them from boring themselves. It’s not like they would keep talking to each other.

Not that me and my date needed something to save us from sheer boredom. My conversations skills aint that bad. But now that I think about it, continuing the conversation was just a terrible idea. It wasn’t the talk of her nonprofit that she started by herself, or  her liberal arts interests, or the myriad list of other problems that plauge the DC scene. No. Instead, she brought up her short hair again, and said that she would probably complete her girl interrupted moment by cutting the rest of her hair off.

“You gotta try everything once, right? she said.

“Disgusting Interesting,” I said.

That pretty much did it for me. I ended the date soon after. She seemed like she enjoyed the date, gave me an enthusiastic hug, and told me that she would “see you soon!”

I never texted her again.