A John McLean Experience...
THE
SEDUCTION
BIBLE
by
John McLean
For
Ken Blackman
Michelle Wright
Rachael Hemsi
Hannah Abend
Angelika Beguidjanova
Who brought me to a boil...
Because only when you're boilin'
Can you make steam!
THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
Also by the bookwright…
NON-FICTION
The Low Carb Revolution
Real Artists Ship
FABLES
Dancing With The Hunger
You Are NOT Destined For Greatness…
But You Can Still Find It
FICTION
Zen And The Art of Stripping
Discover more…
TheJohnMcLeanExperience.com
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
WARNING:
This book is...
Thoroughly Wicked
Pointlessly Vulgar
Exceedingly Naughty
Only for Men
If you are none of these, please don't read it.
Seriously.
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
THE INVITATION
This is an adventure for men who love women...of all
shapes, sizes, ages and colors.
For men who love turning women on.
Who dream of dancing passionately with the Divine
Feminine long into the chaotic night. For men who love
their own bodies and who love themselves.
Ambitious men.
Dreamers.
Empire Builders.
Lovers.
Poets.
Even Pirates. Especially Pirates.
If that's you, this may be one of your most magical
journeys ever.
On the other hand, you might not believe in magic.
Lots of people don't.
Or you might be hiding from the big, bad world.
Tons of folks are.
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Perhaps your perception of women is tainted by lingering
bitterness, shame, blame or pain.
Well, get in line.
If any of these apply, you probably won't enjoy the
adventure ahead. Every step will seem like sandpapery
torture as you find your rawest buttons pushed and your
comfort zone repeatedly trampled. Maybe this isn’t the
ideal time for you to go through this singular experience.
And that's okay, too.
If you need to heal first, go heal first.
Come back any time—you'll be welcomed with open arms.
Whether coming or going, sir, you are loved and you are
deserving of all the greatness you've ever dreamt about.
Either way, I want to share a secret with you. It's the bestest secret of all, because once you truly grasp it, you'll
grasp everything. It's the secret of why you're here. As a
man, I mean. Something you may have wondered about a
time or two.
Are you ready to learn the secret of being a man? Here
goes...
You’re here to transform yourself into the superhero
you were born to become.
That's it.
It may not sound like a lot, becoming a superhero.
But it’s kind of a lot.
Not least since once you step fully into your superhero5
THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
ness, you'll forevermore have a responsibility to fight Evil
in the world--in whatever form it manifests for you.
I know the book’s cover promises that you’ll finally learn
how to understand and seduce women. And so you shall.
So you absolutely shall. You really have no idea of the epic
wins awaiting you in the Land of Women.
But...maybe our odyssey is also a little more than that.
Maybe this is also an instruction manual for superheroes.
Disguised as a book on seduction...so the Bad Guys won't
see us coming...and also to keep mere mortals out.
So if you are one of the select few who's finally ready to
step into your full potential as a man, a lover and a
superhero, then consider this your personal invitation.
Welcome inside!
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LEVEL I
A NEW MODEL of THE HUMAN
EXPERIENCE
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
1: From Scarcity to Abundance
Let's
cut right to the chase, my man. You deserve
MORE. More recognition. More money. And,
naturally, more opportunities to express your
sexuality with the fairer sex.
Together we shall banish all trace of scarcity to
your distant past and deliver you to a land of hot- and
cold-running abundance--where you'll feel confident
that you can connect with any woman you like, and
turn her on just the way she likes.
You already have the ability to do this...you just
don't know it yet. To tease your potential out into the
light of day, you'll first need to make some
fundamental shifts in how you understand the world,
yourself and the whole of the human experience.
As luck would have it. that's exactly where we'll
be focusing our energies during Level I of our heroic
trek.
Along the way, you'll be exposed to secrets you
never knew existed, and you’ll discover the real truth
behind some of the most deeply held and utterly
mistaken myths about life. Starting with the most
ridiculous misrepresentation ever foisted upon
humankind: the one where men supposedly possess
all the appetite for sex, while women have little or
none.
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
As is so often the case with myths, the truth is
exactly the opposite.
Here’s how the story really goes...
Men enjoy splashing around in a bathtub filled to
the brim with our sexual desire--criss-crossing the
sudsy waves with our mighty fleet of colorful plastic
boats, led into battle by our yellow ducky with his
amazing submersible powers, all in all quite thrilled
at the extent of our watery empire.
But no matter how large or grand our bathtub, the
seas of a woman's sexual cravings swamp our own.
While we men are fiercely proud to be Lord High
Potentate of our bathtuby domain of desire, it turns
out that a woman's sexual hunger rivals the depth
and breadth of the ocean itself.
I want to share another secret with you. It's a
secret that some women still won’t admit to, but that
doesn’t make it any less true...
Women don't just have more sexual desire than
men...for all practical purposes they have infinitely more.
Her desire is so vast and deep that you can think
of it as her Infinite Desire.
A woman’s Infinite Desire is both her joy and her
burden.
Her pleasure and her pain.
It's also a large reason why seducing a woman is
so much easier than you may currently suspect. And
since seduction is so very easy, we’re not going to
stop there. Why would we?!
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
Our greater goal is to deliver you to the doorstep
of your own greatness, because if your ultimate goal
isn't to become a Great Man, then what's the point of
any of this?
For that matter, until you step fully into your
Greatness, sir, what's the point of you?!
There's no value or virtue in figuring out how to
understand and seduce women just so you can
squander the remainder of your time punching the
clock as another soulless cog in the corporate hamster
wheel.
Let's get real honest with one another real quick,
my friend...
You and I are both know there have been times in
your life when you’ve set the bar for yourself
ridiculously low. Times when you were sleepwalking
through your job and your sexings alike. When you
made no art, created no lasting wealth and built no
empires in your image.
Lazy days that stretched into months...and even
years.
You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't
you?! And you know deep down that this has got to
change. And if not right now with me, then when?!
Seriously, when?!
Lazy is easy. I should know, I did it for a
looooooong time. It’s always easier to keep doing
what you’re already doing than to do something
different. As you might imagine, we’re gonna do
things different around here.
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
I want you to feel like you're already getting your
money's worth, so here's another secret to sink your
teeth into...
Seduction isn't something you do...it's someone you
become.
And when you become that someone, you get a
reward. That reward, of course, is women. Beautiful,
passionate, naughty women. But becoming a lover in
the tradition of Casanova or, for that matter, your notso-humble narrator, is not for everybody.
Nor should it be.
If playing this game ain't your thing, don't do it.
Go play some other game.
But if you choose to keep playing on this field,
then you gotta play hard. The powerful and turnedon women of the world want nothing less from you
than your best. They want you to show up with the
full force of your presence and desire. They want you
to open up and reveal yourself to the core.
Most of all, the women want you to stop
apologizing for being a man and finally own your
greatness. Only then will they open up to you in
return. Only then will they allow you to see them for
who they really are.
You want to start mixing it up with the best
women? Then you need to figure out how to bring
out the best in yourself every single day.
Women expect nothing less of you. And YOU, of
all people, should expect nothing less of yourself.
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
Now you know the game we're playing here. If I
haven't managed to scare you off yet, my man, then I
invite you to skip directly to Chapter 3. I sorta need to
take a moment for a meeting of the minds with any
stray visitors of the female persuasion who might've
inadvertently stumbled into our Boys Only
clubhouse.
See ya on the other side!
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
2: A Note To The Ladies
Huuuuuuullo
there, sweet cheeks! If you’re a lady
and you're reading this now, let's have a little heartto-heart.
Look deeply into my greenest of green eyes. Feel
the weight of my full, undivided attention on you.
Scoot closer, until our knees touch and our limbic
systems get all cuddly and oxytocin-y with one
another. Feel me feeling you as we lovingly connect.
Are we there? Good, now let's talk...
Dude, you are freakin' killing me here!
What are you doing, anyway—all hanging around
here and getting in our man bidness?! This is supersecret guy stuff!
C'mon, you know the drill...
NO GIRLS ALLOWED!
Baby, I adore you. I know your heart's in the right
place, but, frankly, I did not create this journey for
you. I made it for the men in your life. Or, more
precisely, the kind of men you want in your life.
They're the ones who need this, but never knew
how to ask for it before. Jeez, men aren't even allowed
to ask for directions, so we're sure as heck not gonna
run around asking anybody to 'splain us the inner
workings of the most complicated system in the
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
history of the universe—the human female!
You ladies are always complaining about how
men don't get the rules of you, but how in the world
would they?! Nobody ever took my brothers aside to
explain how the interplay between the sexes works.
Nobody ever bothered to mention that the Masculine
and Feminine forces in the universe are locked in an
intricate, ancient, chaotic dance.
Instead, the bus just dumped them at the entrance
to the milonga—the dance party—and they were
somehow expected to wondrously know all the
complexities of the human tango.
There remain so many decent men out there who
keep making the same mistakes with women over
and over again simply because they were never
taught the jizzity-jazzity turns, steps or even etiquette
of the milonga.
Still, they try. Oh, how men try.
But every fellow has his breaking point. If he's
unable to figure out the dance on his own, he’ll
eventually quit trying. And then, finally, he stops
coming to the milonga altogether.
When a good man stops showing up at the dance,
everybody loses.
I've come to teach these men how to tango with
you. But to accomplish that I first need to lead them
deep within and show them how they can--and,
indeed, must--transform themselves from the inside
out. They've got to discover how to feel into their
deepest ambitions and how to ask the world for what
they want with boldness and confidence.
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
Behind the facade of discovering an original model
of seduction, they’ll evolve into men who know how
to fully show up, and then remain present with you
regardless of how stormy and difficult your seas may
become. Because a man who can hold you literally
and figuratively in his arms without reacting
emotionally to your upsets--that's a man you want at
your side.
Yet for him to arrive at that station in life, he first
needs to mine the depths of his own emotions and
insecurities. He's going to have to do something
rarely asked of men anymore...
Become vulnerable.
I'm going to take him by the hand and show him
how to open up to that vulnerability. To you, for
starters...but ultimately, and most importantly, to
himself.
And, lemme tell ya, there's no harder thing for a
man to do than open up.
None.
And that raw vulnerability and openness is exactly
why he can't have you hanging around, looking over
his shoulder and second-guessing his best efforts.
Even your most heartfelt displays of support and
encouragement could make him feel awkward and
self-conscious to the point where he abandons his
quest to learn the steps of the dance altogether. And
you don't want that. You of all people know how
sensitive men can be in the face of even a whiff of
what they perceive to be judgment or ridicule, right?!
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE by John McLean
This is the road less traveled for men.
I'm calling them “men” because that's what they
look like on the outside, but you and I both know
they're mostly boys. Their bodies grew up, but their
insides didn't. Sure, now they have deeper voices and
more hair (well, some do!) but on the inside they
remain Little Boys putting on a brave front--trying
their best in an already scary world that happens to
be half-filled with even scarier creatures called
women.
Every one of those “boys” has the capability of
becoming the dashing, confident man of action you've
soooooooo longed to meet. A man who can seduce
you and seduce the world. A man who knows what
he wants and goes after it without excuses.
Look, I know you wanna help. That's your nature.
You want to give the men your love and support.
And you can, you most definitely can...
By staying the hell out of our way!
In any case, why waste your valuable time on this
wicked little book about the long lost art of seduction
when there are approximately 10,000 million-trillion
other self-help tomes written by, for and about your
fellow Sister Goddesses of the Traveling Pants? I'm
sure they're all quite lovely and I highly recommend
reading every last one of them. Twice. If not thrice.
On the flip side, your average man will quite
contentedly go through his entire life without
cracking open a single volume on personal
development--much less one about how to become a
“better man”, whatever that’s supposed to mean.
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THE SEDUCTION BIBLE may well be the only
book of its kind that many men read in their whole
life, so why not let them have this unique experience
to themselves?
Hey, I absolutely adore women. I love playing
with women in bed and out. However, and I cannot
emphasize this enough, I did not write this for you.
If you have any issues—and who doesn't have
issues?--then the frank nature of the conversation that
the men and I will be having about sexuality might
make you a little uncomfortable. And by a “little”, I
mean a “lot”. As will the language itself, which
becomes increasingly raw--and, frankly, downright
vulgar—as we gain momentum.
Take another glance at the title, my love. Notice it's
not called How To Be A Good Lil’ Boyfriend, or EZ Guide
to Monogamy. This is not a book about relationship
advice. Relationship is a totally different game than
the one we’re playing here. Besides, you don’t want
them getting relationship advice from me anyway.
I am the quintessential playboy. I travel the globe
full-time with a VIP pass to an all-you-can-eat buffet
of pure hedonism. As I write these words, I'm
spending the summer in the exceedingly naughty
village of London, England. I currently have six
lovers from as many different countries, with new
candidates for my affection appearing on a daily
basis. For me, threesomes and moresomes are what I
call, “Tuesday”.
It’s not like I’m hiding anything here...
I am a wolf in wolves clothing.
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That said, I'm not recruiting the men to my
playboy lifestyle—frankly, most of them couldn't
handle living this way for more than a day or two
before their head exploded like a Gremlin in a
microwave. But I also never once stop for the slightest
judgments, apologies or recommendations about the
“best” way for the men to express their sexuality.
Still, having read ahead, I can assure that you not a
single syllable of traditional relationship advice ever
once emerges from my pen.
Instead I fit out our little Icarus with curvy wings
of feathers, held together with wax and string, and
direct him to fly as close to the sun of his brightly
burning lusts as he dares.
And if you should dare to follow, you may end up
flying too near to the sun of your own deeply buried
passions, such that wax may melt and feathers may
burn and the roaring Beast within you may awaken-hungry and unfulfilled and more than a little upset at
its long imprisonment in the heavy iron cage deep in
the hold of your Great Ship. And the crewmembers of
your ship will point fingers at one another about
who’s to blame until finally they unite in finding the
cause of the Beast’s agitation.
That would be me.
From then on, for page after inflammatory page,
the blaze within you will grow--until finally you'll
want to take it out on the hapless men already in your
life, or you'll want to make me wrong for teaching
them how to fly.
Except there's just one little catch...
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I'm not wrong.
Terminally arrogant, yes. Wrong, no.
So, let’s make a deal, you and I. If you'll take the
next exit for Splitsville, then I'll share a little secret
with you. A secret that would utterly ruin my
reputation if the men were ever to find out. Fair
enough? Okay, here goes...
I just pretend to be a Playboy...actually, I fall in love
every time.
Every.
Single.
Time.
That's the truth. That’s my dirty little secret, just
between me and you. Don’t tell nobody.
And...scene!
Okay, sister, if you're still reading this it means
you still haven't gone away--even though I asked you
super-duper nicely.
More than once. And I even shared a secret with
you. I thought we had a thing, you and I.
A thing.
But noooooooooooooooo. So now I'll have to get a
little firmer with you. It's time for a heavier stroke.
Do you really think I don't know what your
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problem is, lady?! Do you actually imagine I haven't
figured out the game you're playing?! That little game
called, Ooooh Look How Enigmatic Women Are?!
You enjoy dismissing men for not getting
you...even when on occasion they kinda sorta
accidentally DO get you.
You go around pissed off at the boys because they
never learned the Kafka-esque choreography of the
milonga...and you're about to get even more pissed
off at me for shining a bright light into the mirrors
and fog of the dancehall until they finally do begin to
understand and you lose your advantage.
By continuing to hang around you've made me
kinda angry, little missy, so I'm going to rub your
nose in this a little...
I promise you that by the end of this book—hell,
by the end of Level I!--not only will the “boys” finally
grasp how you really work, they'll know a great deal
more about how you really work than you do.
And that's a guarantee!
Let the implications of that sink in. I bet you don't
like that one bit, do you, baby?! Hey, everybody
wants to be the Great & Powerful Oz...until the
curtain's pulled aside, right?!
My theory is that you’re sticking your nose in our
business because you don't want me revealing all
these secrets about how you truly operate.
And why would you? One of the greatest weapons
in your everlasting “battle” with men is your mystery,
your unknowingness, your complicated-osity. Except
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for one little thing, love. It's another secret that
nobody ever explained to you before...
This thing between the sexes is not a battle.
Never was, never will be.
It's a dance. A dance where the Masculine leads
and the Feminine follows. It could as easily have been
the other way around. But it's not. It's this way
around.
Yet there's a part of you that wants to deny that it’s
not a battle, to keep things just they way they are, no
matter what the cost.
Do you even know why?
Actually, you do know why, I'm just going to say it
out loud and bring it into Mutual Knowledge so you
can no longer deny it. There's a part of you that’s
afraid that if the men in your life fully step into their
Masculine Ideal, then you're going to have work that
much harder to keep them.
Both to keep them and keep up with them.
Sweetie, I get that you want to continue thinking
this is a battle that you’ve gotta win at all costs. But
you and I both know that you don't want to always
win. You secretly, quietly, never-admit-this-toanyone-ly want the men to at least have a chance to
win.
You just don't want to make it easy for them.
You want them to earn it.
You want them to earn you.
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Fair enough. So maybe it's not just a dance. Maybe
it's a dance competition, where there are winners and
losers. But the thing you've been doing wrong all this
time is trying to win by making sure the men lose.
Let this secret sink in...
You only truly win when the men also have a chance to
win.
Until that happens, everybody loses.
Dude, I bet you are crushin' on me so hard right
now, aren't you?! I can feel it. I can totally feel you. I
can feel your loneliness. Here’s a parting secret for
you...
As beautiful as you are, inside and out, you’re also
lonely. Not just lonely, but Lonely.
Deeply and profoundly Lonely. Your Loneliness is
the dark secret you silently suffer from every day of
your life, isn’t it?
I’m trying to help you by creating men who are
worthy of you. And you can help me by staying out
of our damn way while we get this all sorted out.
We'll let you know when we're done. In fact, we'll
come find you when we're done. We’ll come and
penetrate your Loneliness like it’s never been
penetrated before...all the way to your Deep Spot.
And I know that you know what I’m talking
about. And I know that you know it’s worth waiting
for. So let us go. Let us fly off to the sun, wax wings
and all!
Now am-scray, aby-bay!
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3: What Do Women Want?
Welcome
back, young man--and whether you're 20
or 120, you are still a young man!
Sorry about that little interruption. While you
were away I charmed the ladies. They agreed to go
back to doing what they do best--being fabulous!-while you and I set off on our heroic adventure of
tilting at windmills and slaying monstrous, firebreathing dragons!
With the dames out of the way, let's get down to
business.
A few years back, some foreign dude named
Sigmund Freud who poked around in people's brains
for a living famously asked, “What do women want?”
A poignant question, indeed...yet one which Herr
Freud himself proved embarrassingly unable to
answer. Well, my friend, we’re about to untangle his
legendary query.
Mind you, our focus here is deliberately narrow.
We're principally exploring what women want in the
sexual arena. And while women are exceedingly
sexual creatures, their sexuality is merely one
miniscule part of the totality of who they are...as we
shall also explore.
Now to better understand both women and men,
let's first make an important distinction...
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There are sexual genders and then there are sexual
energies.
On the one hand, there are humans with male
anatomy, genes and hormones...as well as female
versions of all that same stuff. Meanwhile beneath the
surface, there are forces that propel us through the
world, influencing what experiences we focus on and
what actions we take.
One of these drives is the Masculine--linear,
logical, analytical, goal-oriented, always moving.
The late, great Earl Nightingale described the
Masculine as being like a ship at sea. Without a
purpose and direction, he said, it flounders about,
utterly useless to all concerned. Yet point that same
ship at a distant port and raise the sails, and there's no
limit to what the masculine can achieve...or at least
perish nobly in attempting.
The opposing force is the Feminine—empathetic,
nurturing, social, unpredictable. Contrary to the
masculine, the feminine isn't trying to get anywhere
because there’s nowhere for it to go. It already is
exactly where it wants and needs to be. The feminine
just IS.
David Deida describes the feminine as being like
the ocean--vast and complete unto itself, already
touching every shore. On the surface it's raging, while
beneath the waves everything is calm...or, more often,
the other way around!
Neither masculine nor feminine are better or more
powerful or more anything than the other.
Imagine if your body were a car--and I’m seeing
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you as a Jeep, my friend!--and under the hood you
had a motor that powered you through life. At times,
your masculine motor would engage, driving you
forward to a specific destination, while at others the
feminine would be turned on and your engine would
purr with satisfaction in the lap of the present
moment.
When you (or a woman) are playing the game
called Building An Empire, you are necessarily in
your turbo-charged masculine energy. And when
either of you play the game called Relationship, you’ll
find yourself in your warm sticky feminine energy.
Regardless of our anatomy, all people are driven
at different times by EACH of these forces, which, in
their most inspired incarnations you might think of as
the Divine Feminine and the Masculine Ideal.
As a general rule, women embody more of the
feminine essence and men more of the masculine. Of
course, that's far from always true. There are plenty of
women invested almost entirely in their masculine,
just as there are many men overwhelmed by their
feminine.
Much of our capacity as men to enjoy the actual
experience of sex depends on our ability to access our
feminine essence. (The reason why we frequently
become so gushy and lovey with a woman after even
a single sexual escapade is because our feminine
aspect has opened up and we've rediscovered our
longings for intimacy and connection.)
For our purposes here, however, we're going to
pretend as if the menfolk are the primary keepers of
the masculine fires while the womenfolk tend to the
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feminine flame.
Armed with that understanding, we can rephrase
Herr Doktor Freud's question into something we can
actually work with. Rather than confining the
question to anatomical gender alone, let's instead ask,
“What does the Feminine want?”
The answer, like so many truths, appears simple.
Yet grasping the implications of this simple truth is
the task of a lifetime. Without further ado...
The feminine wants to experience sensation.
Sensation means physiological stimulation from
our many senses. Although our supposed computerbrains get all the credit for understanding the world
thanks to the universal monopoly of the Standard
Dogma, in truth the vast majority of our perception
and processing of what's happening around us takes
place through our bodily senses—well outside our
conscious awareness.
While our brains can (barely) do one thing at a
time, our bodies are capable of taking in and making
sense of billions of bits of data per second--a
staggering feat of multitasking.
While the masculine essence seeks to measure and
define the surface of the world, the feminine desires to know
life at a deeper level through sensation in the body.
The feminine usually prefers to experience
positive stimuli...but what it interprets as positive can
vary greatly according to the situation. (Which is why
many a turned-on woman relishes a smart spanking!)
The feminine impulse to connect with sensation-tapping into and feeling sensory stimulation in every
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cell of her body--is, to borrow Dylan Thomas' electric
phrase, “the force that through the green fuse drives
the flower”.
A man living in his masculine energy can scarcely
fathom the amount of physical sensation that a woman
fully invested in her feminine can hold in her body, nor the
profound depth at which she can feel it.
Whenever we men have enough sensations in our
bodies to actually notice it, our masculine inclination
is to try to make that feeling go away as soon as
possible, if not sooner.
If a man feels the urge to pee, for instance, he has
about a three-minute window of opportunity to make
a mad dash to the nearest toilet before experiencing a
full-blown panic attack. Meanwhile, a woman with
the same impetus might make a mental note to
remind herself to use the bathroom at some point in
time before she goes to bed that night!
The feminine is not only able to sit in negative or
positive stimulations for longer without trying to fix
them, it can also expand in the direction of that
sensation in order to perceive those feelings more
intensely. Which is why the female body has such a
prodigious capacity to enjoy physiological contact
during sex, allowing it build and build, surging back
and forth like powerful waves racing to crash
deliciously upon the far shores of her body.
Again...
The feminine wants to experience sensation.
And not merely experience sensation, but feel it as
profoundly and deeply as possible. A turned-on
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woman's capacity to relish the physical charge in her
body is well-nigh inexhaustible.
So we can refer to it as her Infinite Desire.
Here's another one of those secrets that some
women will simply never admit to, but which they
know in their hearts to be true...
A woman's ability to awaken and feel into her Infinite
Desire during her sexual expression is limited only by her
schedule and the talents of herself or her partner(s).
Women are often genuinely frightened by the
genuinely infinite depths of their desire. And quite
justifiably. They fear that if they get sucked into the
black hole of giving themselves permission to feel
everything they could possibly feel, they'll never be
able to return. They're afraid of falling into their
internal Singularity—where they could be pulled
apart from the inside out by their insatiable hunger
for ever more stimulation. These fears are so palpable
that women sometimes defend themselves against
this dire possibility by shutting down their sex
entirely...or at the least keeping it locked away behind
heavily barred doors, with a muscular Bodyguard
posted just outside as yet another line of defense.
If you cannot create and maintain a safe container
around a woman's limitless capacity for sensation,
then you shouldn’t be engaging with her Infinite
Desire in the first place.
Let's do that one again...it is that important.
If your masculine energy can’t handle the Infinite
Desire of the feminine within a woman, then you have no
business turning her on in the first place.
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Only a fool would douse a bonfire with jet fuel
and then saunter up to light it with a kitchen match.
And you, sir, are no fool.
Or...at least you won't be for much longer!
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4: What Are Men For?
We
shall return again (and again!) to the Infinite
Desire of the feminine, since it's that insatiable
craving to experience physiological sensation that
makes our womanly partners in crime so eager to be
seduced.
But next let's discover our own role in the dance
by asking the question that Lil Siggy Freud never got
around to posing, “What's the point of men?!”
Imma tell you, right now...
Whereas the feminine wants to
sensation, the masculine wants to seek it.
experience
At first blush these seem quite similar.
They're not.
Same planet, different worlds.
Put another way, the masculine is about hunting
down food in the first place, while the feminine is
about savoring every sensuous bite of it once it’s been
caught.
This deep craving for the hunt is expressed
through our limitless lust—our incessant masculine
hunger for more.
And more. And more. And more.
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For all practical purposes, the masculine can never
be satisfied of its desire to hunt, and so we are driven
by our Infinite Lust.
The fiery winds of our Infinite Lust rage day and
night, filling the heavy canvas sails of our personal
pirate ship as we criss-cross the treacherous seas from
one port to the next.
Our lust takes many forms. We can scour the
world in search of monuments to build, riches to earn
or women to conquer. Yet, no sooner have we reached
a new destination, bedded another woman or made
one more million, then we're itching to set off on the
next quest.
While our Infinite Lust drives us to hunt down
and capture prey, sometimes we merely go through
the motions of consuming our catch. Because, unlike
the feminine, the eating of it was never our true
desire. We were always in it for the hunting. Uncle
Abe Lincoln neatly summed up our enduring
enchantment with the hunt: “With the catching ends
the pleasure of the chase.”
Indeed.
Here's a little secret they've studiously left out of
the sexless placebo-speak being preached from the
bully pulpits of Big Self Help seminars everywhere...
Our success as men is directly connected to our Infinite
Lust—our masculine compulsion to roam the world on a
ceaseless quest for more.
And a bonus secret for you...
The more we hide, suppress or deny our lust, the fewer
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our accomplishments will be.
Back when Tiger Woods let his super-heated, loinjarring passions burn like a wildfire across a parched
forest, he won virtually every tournament he entered.
Even Majors were the merest speed bumps in his
path. Then his truly magnificent lust was publicly
exposed and hosed down with the waters of a
thousand
holier-than-thou
gossip
columnists,
unfulfilled housewives and smirking, late-night TV
comics.
Almost immediately his heroic deeds waned.
Nowadays he's no longer a shoe-in to win every
tournament he enters. Indeed, he seldom wins
anymore at all...and it’s no longer even a surprise
when he misses the Cut altogether.
Tiger Woods reigned in his lust in order to keep
his millions in endorsement deals, but at the cost of
his legacy in the game of golf.
Here's a secret they'll never, ever teach at Harvard
Business School...
Great men are driven by great lusts.
“The men of greatest achievement are men with
highly developed sex natures,” wrote Napoleon Hill,
a fellow who threw down with world leaders and
business tycoons alike. “The men who have
accumulated great fortunes and achieved outstanding
recognition in literature, art, industry and architecture
were motivated by the influence of women.”
In a phrase...
Great men are great hunters.
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And the first step to becoming a great hunter?
Well, you gotta actually leave the house.
This may sound incredibly obvious, but you'd be
surprised how many men—good men, qualified men-overlook this step entirely. They squander their
prime years locked behind closed doors, pining away
for more women, more money and more tributes
rather than daring to walk through that door and
hunt them down in the first place.
You might say, “But hunting is not easy.”
And I might answer, “It's not supposed to be
easy.”
If you don't hunt, you don't eat.
If you want to embody your Masculine Ideal and
finally step into your greatness, know this...
Within every man is a lion—and that lion must hunt.
Ceaselessly.
A lion can survive for extended stretches without
actually feeding, but it cannot flourish unless it hunts.
If your lion doesn't hunt regularly, if he isn't
“worked” like one of those multi-million dollar
thoroughbred racehorses, then he'll eventually fall
into a deep slumber. And when your lion sleeps, very
little in your life will go as you desire. One of the
great tragedies of our modern society is that so many
high-value men have stopped hunting--with the
result that their lion has fallen completely asleep.
Over time, these men forget that the hunt is even
part of their nature. They become weak and soft, from
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the inside out.
When you forget to hunt for women, you also
forget to hunt for art and for wealth and for the other
spectacular rewards that are the birthright of the
masculine.
And once you've forgotten these things, then
what's the point of you?
No, buddy boy, I'm really asking you this...
If you forget to hunt, what is the point of you?
The answer, as I'm sure you've already guessed, is
none. A man who doesn't hunt has no point at all.
“Sex desire,” Napoleon Hill added, “is the most
powerful of human desires. When driven by this
desire, men develop keenness of imagination,
courage, will-power, persistence and creative ability
unknown to them at other times.”
To which I can only add, “Preach it, Napoleon!”
(I wonder what his pals called him? “Nappy?”
“The Napster?” “Ol' Nappenheimer?”)
Movie stars, celebrity athletes and captains of
industry all have something in common--towering
achievements fueled by towering lusts, both sexual
and otherwise...but especially sexual.
There currently exist hundreds of “celebrity blogs”
on the Internet, whose singular goal is to chronicle
and lay bare this exact phenomenon: the uncommon
lusts of uncommonly successful people.
Great men don't lock themselves up in their room.
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They bust out of their cage to hunt—again, whether
for money, art, women or empires does not matter.
No prey is more worthy than any other. As Penn
Gillette puts it, “It's all one show business!”
You and I were born to prowl, to hunt for what we
desire, and to reshape the world in our own image.
The hunt keeps us young. No pill, no surgery can
rejuvenate a man like hunting.
Every lesson you still need to learn to
transmogrify yourself into the superhero you were
born to become can be found in the hunt...
Desire.
Persistence.
Vulnerability.
Presence.
Triumph.
Failure.
Most especially, failure. Because if you're not
failing every now again, you're doing it wrong.
Even armed with the all-new model of seduction
I'll lay out for you Levels III and IV of THE
SEDUCTION BIBLE, even I don’t succeed with every
woman I attempt to seduce.
And when I fail, ohhhhhh, I fail spectacularly. And
not just with women, but in all my empire-building
endeavors.
But the important thing is that I never stop
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hunting. I never even think about stopping. Why
would I?! There’d no longer be any point to me if I
did.
Haven't you ever wondered why even the
wealthiest and most successful men on the globe still
go to the “office” every single day and hunt like their
lives depended on it?!
Bill Gates, Donald Trump, Sir Richard Branson,
Elon Musk and their equals couldn't begin to spend
the merest fraction of the wealth they've already
accumulated, yet they go to work day after day and
toil away as if they were pimply-faced interns
desperate to land an entry-level position at their firm.
These men have built up spectacular fortunes and
a stellar body of noteworthy accomplishments, yet
they still hunt every day.
Why?!
Why do they do keep hunting?!
Why do they continue to work when they no
longer need to?!
Because great men cannot do otherwise. Great men
never stop hunting—that's the largest part of what makes
them great.
Whatever they’re currently hunting for is an Epic
Quest that gives their lives meaning and purpose.
Even now, after all his enormous success, Stephen
King continues to sit down at his desk and write his
two thousand words every single day of the year—
including Christmas, the 4th of July and his own damn
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birthday.
As I write these words, Warren Buffett, closing in
on his mid-EIGHTIES and already worth umpteen
billions of dollars, just closed a deal to buy
Pittsburgh-based Heinz Foods for the princely sum of
$28 billion.
Can you guess what Mr. Buffett said in the press
conference to announce this happy news? After the
merest of acknowledgements for pulling off the deal-which just so happened to be the largest food industry
acquisition in the history of the world!--the lively old
coot announced that he's still got another $20 billion
or so in cash and he's “actively hunting for another
deal”.
Those were Warren Buffett’s words precisely...
“Actively hunting.”
A billionaire in his '80s. Not resting on his laurels,
not lounging on the beach reminiscing over his past
successes, not getting stoned with his buddies or
reading a novel by the pool.
Actively hunting.
Here's a pop quiz for you...
What did YOU hunt today?
Great men hunt, my friend. And they keep
hunting...quite often til the day they die. Two words:
Steve Jobs.
For a final celebration of the Infinite Lust of the
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masculine, I’d like to trot out one of those proverbial
men who “need no introduction”.
This fellow is the living embodiment of a modernday Casanova, and he’s yet another exceedingly
wealthy man in his '80s. He's a legendary record
producer and jazz arranger--credited on over 400
albums.
He's won 27 Grammies on more than 70
nominations. In his spare time, he’s composed the
music for 35 feature film scores, founded Vibe
magazine and produced two of the most successful
songs in history--“Thriller” and “We Are The World”
His name, of course, is Mr. Quincy Jones.
But all that's just the back story. I don't want to
shame you, but...
In 2013 alone, Quincy Jones has launched the
careers of six new artists by producing their first
albums.
Currently he’s developing four separate Broadway
shows, including a musical recounting his life story.
He's got nine different movies in various stages of
production.
Oh, and he's composing an original musical on the
evolution of his greatest passion—jazz!
By the way, I was just kidding earlier. I DO want
to shame you here. Seriously, what have you
accomplished so far this year?
Be honest...wouldn't you be content if you'd pulled
off the feat of producing a single album or developing
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one Broadway show in the past twelve months?!
Some men's entire New Year's Resolution list
consists of a lone, modest ambition such as “get a
girlfriend” or “find a new job” or “buy a house”.
Any fool can get a girlfriend, a job or a house.
That's not why you are here. You're here to stand up
and be counted. Whereas the feminine is hungry for
stimulus—both physical touch and emotional
intimacy--the masculine is hungry for recognition—
being acknowledged as unique and important in the
world.
The masculine doesn't just want to build monuments,
it also needs to make sure everybody knows damn well
who's responsible for 'em.
Our craving for recognition from others is why
men so often name their creations after
themselves...witness hoteliers Trump, Wynn, Hilton
and Marriott, just to name a few.
And once you start getting the recognition you
desire and deserve for your creations, you'll want
more and more of it. That's the beautiful nature of this
beast, baby!
I know the secrets are coming fast and furious, but
here's another one to add to your To Do list...
Great men are never content.
Never.
Content.
But, wait, as they say on late-night TV, there's
more. There's even more to the Quincy Jones
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experience, and I personally believe it's the best part
of all. On top of every other one of his current creative
and business endeavors, Quincy Jones still—at 81!!!-makes time in his crazy schedule to hunt women as
well.
He openly brags about having a “masters degree
in partying” and boasts that he's currently juggling 22
separate girlfriends.
Why does he (or Charlie Sheen or the manformerly-known-as-Tiger Woods) want or need
upwards of two dozen lovers in his life? Because his
vast masculine essence wants and needs the
recognition that comes from being that popular.
The ladies might not like this about us--our
insatiable
hunger
for
recognition
and
acknowledgement from others--but we're not living
our lives for them. (And if you are, you're doing it
wrong, buster!) To be fair, we also cannot fully
comprehend the insatiable yearning for sensation of
the feminine, so that leaves everybody nicely
confused about the other side!
Again, sir, what are YOU hunting in your life right
now?! It can be money, art or empires. You can hunt
for truth, influence, wisdom or peace. You can hunt
for absolutely anything you desire.
But you cannot hunt nothing.
You can either play this game and enjoy the
bounty of ladies and wealth and recognition for
yourself—or you can watch other, lesser men take
what should properly have been yours.
To be sure, women also experience sexual lust and
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a desire to hunt, but that's their masculine drive
revealing itself.
When their feminine nature returns, their lust
wanes.
Whereas the feminine is fulfilled by feeling deeply
into the present experience, the masculine must
always hunt for new and different experiences.
Our masculine lust sometimes frightens women.
And you know what frightens them most about it?
The fact that the incendiary fires of our Infinite Lust
quite often turns them on.
The more you connect with your own Infinite
Lust, owning it without reservation or excuses, the
closer you’ll come to stepping into your greatness.
If you stay with me on this heroic journey, I’ll
teach you how to become a far more powerful
hunter—most especially of women. But I cannot make
you hunt. That's all on you.
Of course, if you're not going to hunt, then why
bother getting out of bed each morning?!
To hijack Samuel Johnson's classic quote about
London:
“When a man tires of the Hunt, he tires of life.”
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5: The Rise & Rise of The Standard Dogma
If
you’ve ever struggled to understand or
communicate with women, you may find some grim
comfort in discovering that the origins of your
confusion can be traced back to a single historical
event that you may never even have heard about.
Although, in your defense, nobody else has
either...since this fateful day isn’t marked on any
calendar nor celebrated each year with a smug
champagne toast like the undefeated 1972 Miami
Dolphins.
It took place a balmy July day, barely two years
after the end of WWII, when a parade of generals,
politicians and scientists with top secret security
clearances filed into an nondescript building on a U.S.
Army base in Maryland, passed through a heavily
guarded blast door and found themselves face-to-face
with the most ungainly machine they’d ever set eyes
upon.
The behemoth measured one hundred feet in
length, and weighed in excess of thirty tons. Its
thousands of vacuum tubes, flashing lights, relays
and capacitors--held together by over five million
hand-soldered
joints--represented
the
highest
technology of the day.
A bespectacled scientist with a froth of white hair
explained to the buzzing visitors that the machine
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didn’t come with an on-off switch. Instead it would
be powered up by an Initiating Unit, itself the size of
an industrial refrigerator.
At this, a bevy of young women tucked into slim
pencil skirts--the newest post-war fashion craze from
French designer Christian Dior--ran hither and yon,
turning dials and flicking switches.
The distinguished visitors pressed closer as the
gargantuan machine wheezed and whirred like an
old man waking up from a nap. It was called ENIAC,
and it was the world’s first digital, programmable,
general purpose computer--which Life magazine later
fondly dubbed, “The Giant Brain”.
You can probably guess where this is going
because the planet totally changed with the
introduction of the first computer since it led directly
to that whole digital revolution thing everybody
keeps talking about and all the cool computery stuff
we got today, but, what’s the big deal anyway,
because frankly your little niece’s Easy-Bake Oven
has more processing power than the entire freakin’
ENIAC and yadda yadda and if you’ll just give me a
second here I want to interject that the birth of the
computer era was only the SECOND-most interesting
thing that happened in that room on that fateful day
of July 29th, 1947.
Now can I go on?!
So, by a string of coincidences that rivaled the
collapse of the Bridge of St. Louis Rey, to one side of
the room were gathered a dozen gentlemen who were
previously known to each other by reputation alone.
None of them stood out--because nobody really stood
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out back then...it was shoulder-to-shoulder charcoal
suits, white shirts and narrow ties--but they
represented a Who’s Who of academics, psychiatrists
and medical doctors.
They’d separately made long pilgrimages by train
and motor car to be present on this day because they,
too, had a problem.
Theirs didn’t involve calculating artillery shell
trajectories or plotting the blast radius of a
thermonuclear explosion. Instead, it was something
much closer to home.
In just a few short generations, the world had
become
so...complicated.
People
previously
understood themselves and their role in the unfolding
drama of the universe through the colorful stories
told by the great religions and the great philosophers.
But after the horrific onslaught of wars,
pandemics, revolutions and genocides that had
marred much of the 20th Century, it had become
increasingly apparent that the old stories and fanciful
myths were no longer up to the task of guiding
humanity into the brave new world ahead.
The man on the street had become skittish and
afraid; he no longer even trusted himself to make the
right decisions anymore.
Something needed to be done. A completely new
philosophy of mind was required to fill the void. But
the learned gentlemen, still weary from the war effort,
were fresh out of ideas.
At last the vacuum tubes of the Initiating Unit
were fully warmed up. A relay switch noisily
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snapped open, and kicked a staggering 150 Kw
directly into ENIAC--a jolt so powerful that it caused
the lights to dim noticeably in Philadelphia.
Or so the story went.
The preeminent calculating machine in history had
barely creaked to life when something abruptly went
wrong and it ground to a halt with an inelegant sigh.
The pencil skirts flittered in a panic--zeroing dials
and swapping out ring counters and double-checking
accumulators--until finally a saucy redhead emerged
from behind the contraption, holding tweezers fixed
around a plus-size moth with the poor luck to have
crispified itself between a pair of scalding vacuum
tubes.
“I found a bug!” she announced to the bemused
room as ENIAC sputtered back to life.
Within moments the massive machine was solving
partial differential equations...sparing the rest of us
the bother of having to solve those stupid things
forevermore.
Slowly the esteemed gentlemen turned to face
each other, the dawn of a bold new idea lighting up
their faces. One of their number spoke for the rest, “It
appears that machine and man have become one,
gentlemen.”
The lone economist of the bunch added, “I think
we found what we were looking for...what everyone
was looking for.”
A week later, the gentlemen reconvened at the
Algonquin Hotel in New York City under the
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watchful eye of the management’s legendary hotel
cat, Hamlet, and set to work codifying a new model of
the human experience based on the example of
ENIAC.
Piece by piece, they built a structure of the mind
that could be examined in a laboratory like any other
science--measured, studied and quantized. It was
based on the then-revolutionary premise that the
brain functioned precisely like a high-speed
computer.
To change the output of our thinking and actions,
they argued, we merely needed to change the input of
our “programming”. Once you start comparing the
human mind to a computer, one conclusion follows
another with an almost mathematical inevitability.
RAM. Hard drive. Debugging. Sub-routines.
Chunking. It was all there.
The gentlemen worked around the clock for the
rest of the summer, culminating in a manuscript as
imposing as the machine that inspired it--fully 1000
pages long and more a quarter of a million words in
length. The cover page bore the rather cumbersome
title, The Official Doctrine of Human Mind-Machine.
A famous photograph from Life magazine showed
the gentlemen--by now household names, one and
all--shaking hands across the towering pile of
typewritten pages of the original manuscript,
featuring the caption, “The geniuses responsible for
the new Standard Dogma”--and ultimately this was
the name that stuck.
In short order, the Standard Dogma proved to be
a “category killer”. It was such an accessible and
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expandable model of the brain--every situation a
human could possibly face had an exact corollary in
the realm of computing--that soon all the competing
philosophies of mind drifted into obsolescence or
ridicule.
Look magazine praised the Standard Dogma as, “A
modern machine-model of the mind for the modern
machine-man”.
The influence of the Standard Dogma on all
aspects of psychology, medicine, the social sciences
and the entire Fourth Estate cannot be overstated. To
this day, the machine-model of the mind dominates
every aspect of our society and culture with an irongrip that even the Roman Catholic Church didn’t
enjoy during its best days in the good ol’ Dark Ages.
It’s now an indisputable, universally appreciated
fact that the only valid method of changing your life
is by first changing the operating instructions of your
computer-brain--a worthy message repeated in every
book and seminar emerging from Big Self Help today.
And it would be a happy future for all concerned
except for one thing.
It’s just a little thing. Really, it’s so trivial that I
almost hesitate to mention it.
But since our ultimate goal is to truly understand
both ourselves and the fairer sex, I’m thinking it
might ultimately prove worth mentioning, so let’s just
get it out of the way, shall we?
Sooooo, there's just one teeny, tiny, itty, bitty
problem with this whole high-tech, computerized,
George Jetson-y take on personal development by the
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Standard Dogma-teers.
In a word...
It’s completely and totally wrong.
Okay, five words.
But, still...wrong!
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6: Out With The Old
C’mon, someone’s gotta point out that the Emperor’s
wearing no clothes here...
Human beings are nothing like computers.
Our brains cannot be programmed...much less
reprogrammed. You cannot defrag your mind, erase all
limiting thoughts or neuro-anything yourself to a
better, brighter future.
Still, we’re told that success is merely a small
matter of re-engineering our beliefs in order to get on
the fast track to incredible success, riches and a
slender waistline.
Attempting to change our lives through masculine
logic and the “technology” of transformation is not
only ineffective, it's just plain silly.
Think about it, my friend...
If we actually could simply program our own
success---like we’re told repeatedly by glossy
magazines and cloying Think-Positive social media
memes--why wouldn't 100% of humanity go to bed
tonight with our computer brains focused on all the
right programming so we’d wake up tomorrow
morning on a sunny Caribbean beach, with millions
in the bank, a set of washboard abs and the partner of
our dreams lounging in the soft sand beside us?!
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Riddle me this...
If the Standard Dogma really works, how come
we're not all driving Ferraris?!
Seriously, how come virtually all of the Ferrari
driving is done by the people who package and
repackage the Standard Dogma, rather than by the
earnest, hard-working people who are trying so
valiantly to reprogram themselves according to their
operating instructions?
And it’s not like our lives have been improved by
this thing. By every measure, people today are
unhappier, unhealthier and unwealthier than they
were when we first started down this road in the late
1940’s.
Despite getting virtually 100% of the airtime for
sixty years and counting, the Standard Dogma has
still never been able to successfully answer any of the
central questions facing modern mankind...
Why do we do the things we do?
More to the point...
Why don’t we do the things we don’t do?
Or even...
Despite equal amounts of desire starting out, how come
so damn few of us achieve greatness, while such a great
many of us do not?
Finally...
How come most people not only never get what they
want in life, they never even come close?
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Nobel laureate Richard Feynman put it succinctly,
“If your model of the world disagrees with
experiment, it's wrong. Period.”
And the experiment doesn’t seem to be working
out so well, does it?
Even the academics and psychologists charged
with infecting the Standard Dogma upon successive
generations know full well it’s wrong, they just have
too much invested to stop now. When the
experiments of our lives disagree with the results of
their laboratory predictions, they merely point the
finger of blame at someone else...
Us.
Or, more accurately, our faulty programming.
They insist that our success is merely a small
matter of reconditioning our internal computer. If we
can’t quite get the punch cards in the right order,
they’ll happily set to work “debugging” us with pills
and therapy and other activities conducive to paying
off their vacation homes in Costa Rica.
But perhaps the most grievous offense of the
Standard Dogma is how much damage it has done to
our ability to genuinely connect with our female
counterparts.
It’s almost like one of the original gentlemen
behind the Standard Dogma was secretly an Evil
Scientist who charged with causing men to Mentally
Castrate themselves so that our best efforts to
communicate with women would become almost
laughably ineffective. (Of course, given the era in
which this philosophy of the mind sprang up, this
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may well have been a built-in design feature from the
beginning.)
Bottom line, the old stuff doesn’t work, so we’re
gonna do something different.
You never change things by fighting the existing
reality.
To change something, build a new model that makes the
existing model obsolete.
--Buckminster Fuller
So let’s do that. Together, let’s build a new model
of the mind.
And if you like it, you can use it to do cool things
like understanding your own drives and motivations
better than ever before. Or getting stuff done that
you’ve been putting off for...well, your whole life.
But mostly we’re gonna use it to get girls.
Because...why wouldn’t we?!
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7: You Are Not Who You Think You Are
Wow, thanks for still being here.
Seriously, I know you've got a kazillion other
pressing things to do and I deeply appreciate you
spending your valuable time on what I hope you’ll
eventually come to see as a heroic journey. (Not to
give away the punchline or anything, but the Hero
here is YOU!)
I also want to thank you for being open to the idea
of considering the world from a different perspective.
We men are used to being right all the time...heck
we’re supposed to already know how everything
works. So it takes a real man to admit that his old way
of approaching the world and the lovely ladies in it
may have been, if not entirely wrong, then possibly
skewed and certainly incomplete.
And just so there's no surprises, I should warn you
ahead of time that the singular model of the mind I’m
going to share with you is--what’s the word? oh yeah:
weird.
It’s very weird stuff.
But you know what else is weird?
Life.
Life is weird.
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Life is incorrigibly weird.
People are weird.
Quantum physics is weird.
And women--they are quite possibly the weirdest
things ever invented.
But you know what's not at all weird? That oldfashioned, computer-controlled paradigm of how we
operate called the Standard Dogma.
That’s not weird at all.
It makes perfect sense.
Which itself is weird, when you think about it.
Here’s a secret that the Keepers of the Standard
Dogma definitely don’t want you to find out...
No explanation of the human experience that isn’t
weird can possibly be true.
Speaking of the Standard Dogma, you ever go to
one of those motivational seminars with the rest of
your office or on your own where they get you all
pumped up and screamy?! Where the word
“Mastery” or “Destiny” or “Greatness” appears
somewhere in the title?
Where you're glad-handing the other hyperexcited attendees and swapping earnest promises to
become multi-millionaires by the end of the calendar
year? Where you diligently fill in the blanks of the
workbook that shows you the precise path to
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“recalibrating your mind-map to ultimate success” or
whatever?
Then by the end of the day or weekend, the hubbub dies down and life returns to normal. Weeks
pass. Months. And nothing. You don't become a
multi-millionaire. In fact, you don't change at all.
So what was that all about?
How could you be so intoxicated with upbeat
emotions and certainty for your future at the
seminar...and ultimately have so little to show for it
down the road?
Seriously, what was that all about?!
Well, it turns out that the “you” who was at the
seminar—the you making new friends who dress
nicer than your old friends, or the you so
enthusiastically writing down the 13 Action Steps to
Mastery/Destiny/Greatness—is not at all the same
“you” that has to actually show up day-in and dayout and put in the work to get wherever you're going,
now is it?!
Or maybe you never attended a personal
development seminar, but instead went to one of
those weekend Pick-Up Artist bootcamps. The same
paradigm applies--the you getting bold and chatty
with the dames while being egged on by your
peacocked pickup guru isn't the same you sitting next
to some sweet thing at a Starbucks a few weeks
later....and so not a single one of the “gains” you
made during that intense weekend shows up to help
you start a conversation with her, much less seduce
her into your bed.
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Or maybe you simply went on vacation and
noticed yourself acting quite differently in this new
environment surrounded by a bunch of crazy
strangers.
The reason what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas
is because whatever happened there didn't even
happen to “us” in the first place—it happened to a
totally different side of us, our Vacation Self, if you
will.
Of course, the Standard Dogma doesn't account
for any of this. According to their model, there’s just
One monolithic of you. Everything Big Self Help
teaches depends upon the “fact” that the gal who
shows up for the firewalk and the gal who later sits
down to create a new online empire are one and the
same.
Except...they're not.
But you don’t need me to tell you that. You
already know there’s not just “one” of you, don’t
you? It's more like there's a bunch of “you's” hiding
out behind your Name.
After all...
To your mom, you're a son.
To your boss, you're an employee.
To your minister, you're a believer.
To your teacher, you're a student.
To your doctor, you're a machine that needs
debugging.
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To your cat, you're its personal servant.
And on and on through the many roles you cycle
through each day in the course of being “You”. Most
people in your life glimpse only one narrow aspect of
who you are...and label you accordingly.
Your coworkers never see your musical side, and
your musical friends might be appalled by your
spiritual side.
We instinctively compartmentalize and label
others according to the one specific arena of life from
which we know them. Perhaps you’ve experienced
the awkwardness of running into a former school
teacher at a grocery store and realizing she’s an actual
person with appetites and needs just like you?! All
this time you thought she was “merely” your 4th
Grade teacher. But it turns out someone married her!
And then apparently had sex with her because she
has kids! And now she’s out buying food for those
kids!
The horror...the horror.
Or maybe’ve gone to a party and saw this creepy
schlubb whom you absolutely cannot stand, and he
turns out to have a side of himself that’s a virtuoso
cello player, and all the pretty women at the party are
ooing and awing over him and you're like, “Noooooo
way! That guy's a total loser. He cannot be good at
anything, dammit!”
But he is good at something. He has a part that’s
really good at playing the cello.
Yup, that happened to me, once!
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Damn that guy!
Despite the world's insistence on putting labels on
us—Republican, gay, Libra, egghead, playboy, etc.—
no one of us is just one thing.
Here’s the starting point for our radically new
model of seduction that just might change your life
forever...
You, me and everybody else you'll ever meet in your
entire life is made up of parts...and each of these parts is
responsible for a different aspect of how we interact with
the world.
That straight-as-an-arrow financial analyst who
does your taxes on the side might also have another
side to him in which he and his trophy wife are
enthusiastic, same-room swingers with other couples
on the weekends.
That leggy Vegas showgirl might have a quiet,
bookish part of her that loves nothing more than
staying home on a Friday night, curled up with a
tragic Russian novel.
Myself, I am an author, playboy, globetrotter,
hypnotist, juggler, father, shaman and more. Much
more.
All of these are legitimate sides of me, yet none are
fully me.
The aspect of me that you experience depends entirely
on the game you and I are playing together.
Right now I'm connecting with you through the
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“writer” side of me. If you were to plop down at the
table next to me at the Starbucks in London directly
across the street from the British Library where I'm
working right this very second, I wouldn't be able to
talk to you at all...at least not while I'm still writing.
My writer only knows how to play the game
called writing. He (quite literally) doesn't know how
to talk.
On the other hand, if you and I met while I was
out dancing like a madman, which I often do, you
wouldn't begin to guess that any part of me could
ever sit still long enough to put pen to paper and
fashion a single sentence, much less an entire book.
And so on.
The reason people get upset when we “label” them
is because they realize they’re way more than just that
one side of themselves. Although they get bent out of
shape when they're being labeled, of course they turn
around and do the exact same thing to everybody else
they meet.
They “label” their mechanic as a mechanic. It
wouldn't occur to them that he might also be a caring
dad, a middling lover and a bad-ass heavy metal bass
player.
Society puts labels on us.
Our friends put labels on us.
But, mostly, we put labels on us.
None of those labels are true. Or, at best, they are
only a little bit true...and even then only in a narrow
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context.
Yet we all do it...
“She's just a dumb blonde.”
“Trevor's a jock.”
“Bob's a Libertarian.”
“Peggy is lazy.”
“Amanda's a prostitute.”
“My dad is a jerk.”
Here's a rather significant secret that the Keepers
of the Standard Dogma “accidentally” left out of their
manual...
No one person is just one thing--we’re all made up of
different parts that take turns playing different games for
us.
Now it sometimes happens that we become so
invested in a single part of who we are that we begin
to identify ourselves AS that part—especially if that
part causes a disproportionate amount of uproar in
our life.
People who've smoked cigarettes for many
loooong years will readily refer to themselves as
smokers, as if a “smoker” is actually Who They Are.
In truth, nobody is a smoker.
Sure, some people have a part of themselves that
smokes, but that's not “who” they are. Smoking is just
a game that part of them plays some of the time. (Or a
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lot of the time, if they’re a super-heavy smoker like I
used to be!)
All of humanity share various Major Parts that can
be found in each of us--corresponding to our sexual
side, our creative side and so on.
In addition, any individual can develop an
unlimited number of Minor Parts that are unique to
them. Now these sides are minor in name only, since
their benefit or detriment to someone's life can be
quite profound.
These aspects of ourselves can learn to play big or
small games such as smoking cigarettes or flying a
plane or even being afraid of flying.
I cannot play a single musical instrument, so I
don't have a musical instrument playing “side” of me.
But you might have one, and yours might even be able
to play more than one instrument.
On the flipside, I speak several languages fluently
and so I have a robust aspect of myself that knows
how to learn, recall and communicate via foreign
languages--while yours may be less well-developed
or even absent altogether, especially if you're a typical
American!
When an employer posts a job notice requesting
applicants “with experience”, what they're really
saying is that they're looking for somebody who has
already developed a part of themselves that knows
how to play the game called Barista or Stripper or
Mini-Boss on an aircraft carrier.
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A significant reason why homo sapiens triumphed
over the competing human-esque species during the
past three million years of evolution is because of our
innate ability to generate new parts to respond to new
stimulation from our environment. A new minor part
can emerge at any time in our lives. The great
American poet Maya Angelou took up the piano—
thus creating a brand new aspect of herself in the
process—at the delicious age of 65!
I didn't have a “smoking side” of me until I was
already 22 years old and already graduated from
college. But this new part of me took to its game with
such a vengeance that within a decade I was smoking
five (5!) packs of cigarettes per day...and it
subsequently took me more than two years of
dedicated labor in full-blown Mad Scientist mode to
figure out how to get this “little” part of me to stop
and play some other game instead..
The culmination of my journey to persuade my
former smoking part to finally quit depended on my
giving it another game to play that seemed at least as
large and important as smoking all those cigarettes
had previously been.
If our minor parts couldn't change, then nobody in
history (myself included) would ever have quit
smoking, nobody would have ever gotten over their
shark phobia and not a single former Nice Guy would
ever have turned into the kind of Bad Boy that
women find so irresistible.
Criminals also have lots of different sides, just like
the rest of us. Often only a single part of a criminal is
demonstrably bad, while the rest are quite normal
and even boring. (This, by the way, is why 99% of the
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neighbors of heinous criminals later tell newspaper
reporters, “I never saw this coming...the side of him I
saw every day was so sweet and helpful...what a
charming young man he was!”)
The nicest guys you'll ever met are
gangsters...until you cross them, of course, and then
their “little” gangsta side comes out to play—with a
gun and stuff. If that happens, hopefully you’ve got a
part that can run real fast!
The realization that we are made up of inner
characters, if you will, that take turns “being” us
comes as quite a shock to some people...in part
because it seems almost inconceivable that this take
on the human experience never once came up in a
lifetime of schooling, corporate training and PBS
documentaries.
Only the small secrets need to be protected.
The big ones are kept secret by public incredulity.
--Marshall McLuhan
Yet as soon as most people hear about it, the whole
thing makes perfect sense--and even helps explain
many of the previously inexplicable conflicts in their
life. Think back to a recent crossroads, where you felt
uncertain about a big decision. Perhaps one side of
you desired one outcome, while another side wanted
something completely different.
Recently my friend Becky said to me, “A part of
me wants to put everything in storage and move to
Paris to become a painter, while another part of me
wants to make an offer on a house and put down
roots right here.”
“Of course they do,” I told her. “These are
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different parts of you, each with completely different
agendas. Everybody has lots of sides that compete
aginst one another to get their own needs met.”
“Oh,” she said, “I thought it was just me. I figured
maybe I was crazy or something.”
“You're still crazy, Becky, just not because of that!”
Since the fact that we're made of major and minor
parts taking turns being who we are is largely kept
hidden from us, people can deeply guilty and shamed
about a previous bad decision without ever realizing
it wasn't “them” who erred, but rather one small part
of them that briefly got the upper hand.
I once knew a Okie who was (mostly) a very good
girl. So much so that the only way for her naughty
side to come out was to drink an outrageous amount
of tequila.
And that did the trick. Tequila invariably brought
out her sexual side to play. But her tequila-fueled side
was not what you might call “picky”, and she
sometimes woke up next to some of the most heinous
men in town--highly embarrassed and confused by
her experience.
The knowledge that we consist of various, often
competing parts, is hardly breaking news. It’s been
known since the dawn of civilization by every
practicing Medicine Man, Witch, Kahuna, Shaman
and Wisdom Keeper.
In more “civilized” circles, pop culture favorite
Carl Jung explored this very same turf in the 1950's,
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calling the many sides of us Archetypes.
The Keepers of the Standard Dogma praised Jung
for his imagination (he gave the parts delightfully
poetic names such as Shadow, Animus and Trickster),
but they were too entrenched in promulgating their
own brain-as-badly-programmed-computer model to
pay much attention to him and his work never
achieved its due.
A decade later, a rogue psychiatrist named Eric
Berne reduced Jung's small army of archetypes to just
three parts, which he referred to as Ego States and
awarded the most utilitarian of names: Parent, Adult
and Child.
Berne called his model of the human experience
Transactional Analysis (TA), based on his belief that
each interaction between two people constituted a
single transaction between them.
Dr. Berne drily described ego states as a “coherent
set of beliefs with related behavior patterns”. But in
his lighter moments he likened an ego state to a game
that one part of us learns how to play. This game
could involve doing theoretical physics, gambling or
any human activity whatsoever.
Transactional Analysis enjoyed a surge of public
popularity in the sixties and seventies, where it briefly
put New City intellectuals and community college
dropouts on the same footing.
Yet Prof. Berne never particularly intended TA to
be a working system for laypeople to understand
themselves and improve their lives, not least since he
never got around to exploring the most important
human transactions of them all—the ones between
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the separate ego states within a person that occur out
of sight of the rest of the world.
Because, as we shall soon discover...
The real game’s on the inside.
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8: Meeting The Crew
Just so you can pack for the trip ahead, here’s where
we’re ultimately going with all this...
Only when your sexual side is out can you successfully
seduce a woman. And only when her sexual side is out-and playing nicely with yours--will she respond to your
seduction.
There is no other way to seduce a woman.
Period.
The place where so many men go so very wrong is
spending days, sometimes years, trying--and
inevitably failing--to use the “wrong” part of
themselves to seduce the “wrong” part of what may
actually have been the right woman.
That’s a lot that went wrong and very little that
went right...no wonder so many men are so very
frustrated.
Nothing about the human existence takes place in
a vacuum. And that includes seduction. Although
your sexual side is the key to seducing a woman,
there will always be other parts of you waiting in the
wings for their two-hour trot upon the stage of your
life.
Some of these ego states play larger roles than
others, but ultimately all of them make significant
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contributions to the experience of being You. These
parts can greatly assist you in your seductions when
they have a little direction...or they can utterly muck
up the works if left to their own devices.
In short, it’s a team effort.
We’re about to meet a few of our major parts-which, again, means they’re factory-installed in all of
humanity as opposed to our optional, after-market
minor parts...
LOVER: our sexual side and a major player in the
story ahead
INNER ARTIST: our once and future creative side
INNER CHILD: the often scared little boy within
every man
COMMUNICATOR: made up of two aspects, our
Talker and our Writer (Contrary to expectation, they
often have poor communication with one
another...which is how it’s possible to learn to read
and write excellent French, for example, without also
learning how to speak it above a pedestrian level.)
WISDOM KEEPER: our healer...as well as the
Keeper of the Ancient Wisdom since the dawn of
civilization--a part referred to by Dr. Carl Jung as “the
two-million year old man that is in us all”
HEAD LIBRARIAN: tasked with storing longterm knowledge and retrieving it with blinding
efficiency as needed
CONSISTENCY MONSTER: a ferocious aspect of
us that often bullies our other parts into remaining
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“consistent” with past decisions and choices
PUPPY BODY: the ego state of our physical body-arguably our most important and yet often most
neglected side
There are a few other big parts, but they won’t
factor into our conversation ahead. Once more, you
have a potentially unlimited number of smaller parts
that are unique to you--bearing in mind, of course,
that there are no small parts, only small actors!
Next we'll get up close and personal with the guest
of honor, your sexual side...followed immediately by
a formal introduction to its counterpart within the
ladies.
A WARNING...
The further we get from shore, the saltier our
language shall become. After all, you and I are
pirates. And pirates don't sugarcoat what they say to
one another on the high seas.
As Thomas Jefferson sagely put it, “If you're not
offended twice a day, you're not living in a free
society.”
Besides, if explicit talk and frank discussion of
sexuality offends you, I gotta wonder how the hell
you got this far in the first place. This is a journey
about discovering how to connect the naughtiest part
of yourself with the naughtiest part of a woman in
order to do deliciously naughty things together.
How the hell did you think this was all gonna go
down?!
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It was never going to be anything less than an Xrated show, baby.
So if you come across anything in the pages ahead
that shocks you, good! In the immortal words of Mae
West, “Those who are easily shocked should be
shocked more often.”
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9: Your Sexual Side--Lover
The leading face of your sexuality is something like
the oversexed wolf character played by Jim Carey in
the Mask—or even the oogah-oogah, eyes-bulging,
heart-pounding Lotharios of so many lecherous
cartoons of the 1930’s.
This is your Lover.
It should come as no surprise that he’s a very
naughty boy, indeed. He thinks about sex all the time.
After all, sex is the game he plays—so why wouldn't
he?!
Your Lover wants to have sex with as many
different women from as many different
denominations as humanly possible. He feels some
amount of desire for virtually every non-heinous,
adult woman who crosses his path. And, to be fair,
even the heinous ones have a chance on days when
he's feeling particularly amorous.
Here’s a secret most men would flatly--and quite
hotly--deny to their female friends...
Our Lover is pretty much down to fuck just about any
adult female who’s willing.
Now before you get any crazy notions about
plummeting into a Technicolor Jessica Rabbit-land of
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hyper-sexosity, it should be noted that Lover boy's
eyes are definitely bigger than his stomach. He's not
remotely capable of handling even a fraction of the
women he so adamantly desires.
However, your Lover probably is capable of
handling more women than he currently gets to play
with.
I meet very, very few men whose problem is too
much fucking...and one helluva lot whose problem is
too little.
And, frankly, that goes double for women.
Although your Lover plays THE crucial role in
seducing women into your bed, he’s still rough
around the edges and needs a fair bit of polishing
before we can set him loose on the fairer sex.
To our--and his--good fortune, the whole of Level
II is designed as a sort of Finishing School for your
Lover, an opportunity for him to get cleaned up,
build up his stats and find the compass he’s been
lacking.
Since he will be our boon companion for the
remainder of this adventure, let’s move on to the next
character in our show--and what a feisty nugget of
sensuality she is!
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10: Her Sexual Side--Naughty Girl
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand, you're still here!
Seriously, every chapter that passes without you
making a person-shaped hole in the wall in a mad
dash to escape, the prouder of you I become.
As you know, most people never read past the
first few chapters of the books they pick up. Or they
dip in here and skim there, reading in exactly the
same manner they live the rest of their lives—halfassed.
But you, sir, are not most people.
You, sir, are awesome!
Next I want to introduce your awesome self to a
woman's sexual persona--her Naughty Girl.
Now remember all of this is just a metaphor.
Except, not really.
As you'll discover once we start putting
everything into play with real, live women (eeeeek!)
in Level IV, every turned on woman speaks and acts
as if her Naughty Girl was a real, live person inside
her--someone who emerges from time to time to take
over her body completely when sexy-times are in the
offing.
She genuinely conceives of her Naughty Girl as
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being like a completely different person—someone
who’s ready, willing and able to do the oh-so-naughty
things she’d never give “herself” permission to do.
Unlike our Lover, who tries to get “out” every
chance he gets–except when you most need him, like
when you’re face-to-face with a woman...but (much)
more on this later--a woman's Naughty Girl is
generally kept well out of sight and under lock and
key.
Make no mistake, a woman wants to let her
Naughty Girl out to play. You have no idea how
much she wants that.
But in no culture of the world is it safe for her
Naughty Girl to run around like the town trollop. In
fact, overt displays of sexuality can often get a woman
stoned...whether with real rocks in fundamentalist
conclaves or with Twitter stones in the United States
of Slut-Shaming.
So unless a woman’s actually at an orgy, she
doesn’t normally walk around with her Naughty Girl
in charge. The true Art of Seduction depends on your
Lover--not you, your Lover--gracefully coaxing this
sometimes skittish part of her out to play.
But even that’s just the beginning of the dance.
Your Lover and a woman’s Naughty Girl are merely
the leading edges of your vast sexuality.
The deeper you venture within, the more primal
the experience...as the searing winds of your passions
and the aching wings of her darkest desires yearn to
take flight and explore the depths--an ancient pas-dedeux that awakens your respective Beasts.
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You could almost say these primal, rarely
discussed aspects of the human experience are hungry
to make your acquaintance.
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11: The Beast Within
While your other parts mostly present themselves to
your imagination as human-esque avatars, the
deepest level of your sexuality prefers to reveal itself
in the form of a totem—an animal representation of
itself. The first 200,000 years of art homework handed
out at Caveman College consisted exclusively of
chiseling animal totems into or out of cave walls or
rocks.
The particular totem that embodies the most
primal aspect of our masculine desire is, no surprise,
our Lion.
The Lion prowls our lowest, darkest depths. A
great number of men never once in their lives allow
their Lion to reach the harsh light of day. Instead they
devote great angst and energy to ignoring,
suppressing and denying its very existence.
And for good reason.
Your Lion is powerful and he is hungry. He could
potentially devour your other parts, large or small.
He is, both literally and metaphorically, your internal
Beast.
Ravenous.
Fierce.
Deadly.
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Starving.
The Beast within is what forms the beating heart of
the “monster” in all horror novels and motion
pictures. No matter what form it takes on page or
screen, the monster in every scary story is a thinly
veiled representation of the deepest level of our own
primitive sexuality.
Attempting to slay the sexual beast within us is a
right of passage that all civilized societies anticipate.
This is why the primary audience for horror
stories in every generation is the latest crop of
teenagers, who are being ripped apart by the tug-ofwar between their raging hormones of beastly desire
and the immovable forces of polite culture that want
them to curb and repress those appetites.
It will come as no surprise that our journey
together will take us in exactly the opposite direction
as the one endorsed by the Standard Dogma—which
rarely acknowledges that we even possess a sexual
nature, much less such a dark and dangerous side to
us.
Yet rather than keep our Lion pent up in the
murky bowels of our ship, we're going to set him free
so he can exercise his true desire—roaming the earth
in search of prey.
Remember the bits about your masculine
compulsion to always keep hunting? Well, can you
now guess which of your ego states actually does that
hunting?!
If you said, “Lion”, you are absolutely right--and
you get 1000 points! (Good job, by the way!)
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In order to stand up and be counted among other
Great Men. your Lion must hunt. If you will but let
your Lion out to hunt, then you, too, can live
forever—celebrated for empires and monuments to
rival Kubla Khan.
Or, you can continue to keep your Lion firmly
locked away and hidden from sight, while lesser men
than you with more boldness in their step share the
spoils of recognition, money and pussy that rightfully
should have gone to you.
Your Lion is the fullest incarnation of your
masculine sexual energy...and it settles for nothing
less than total submission from the world and
complete surrender from the feminine.
Complete surrender.
Mark those words, my friend...
Complete.
Surrender.
Those words are the keys to the kingdom.
But you're not quite ready to possess these keys
just yet. We'll get there soon enough...but first let's
take a peek at what doors these magical keys can
open up for you.
Not every man can access the deepest layer of his
sexuality. Not every man learns to bring his Lion to
life and let him out to hunt. But when he does, he
soon discovers that his Lion requires a worthy
playmate.
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Your Lion can devour an average woman's
Naughty Girl in just a few bites. And that's no fun at
all.
Seriously.
Only when you learn how open up a woman and
create a safe space where she can surrender to you
completely can you release a woman's Beast—her
inner Tigress.
Not only is her Tigress a worthy adversary, she's
actually a little more than your Lion can handle.
Which is just the way we want it.
Something we know that many women don’t...
The tussle between the sexes would hardly be
worth the effort if we knew we were going to win
every time, now would it?!
Win or lose, the game’s worth playing and the
rewards are great. Lemme let you in on another hotly
contested secret...
A woman’s Tigress is a complete and total slut.
Whoa, did I just feel you cringe when I used that
word?
I sure hope so! That was my intention. To push
your buttons.
Slut, slut, slut!
Slut’s a very charged word...but it exactly
describes the Tigress.
“Slut” is a word no decent woman wants any part
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of. Almost universally, it's the worst-est label you can
put on any female on the planet. If you ever call a
stripper, a streetwalker or even the most ghetto-ass ho
you'll ever meet in the hood a “slut”, be prepared to
run.
'Cause that bitch will cut a bitch—with angry
words or a real knife or both.
By the way, before you ask...sluts are not whores.
Whores these days have been thoroughly sugarcoated and romanticized on stage and screen alike. If
they're not quite the girl next door, they're at least the
girl who lives next door to the girl next door.
But here's the rub: whores charge money for sex.
A slut will fuck you for free.
And your buddies, too. In every hole She doesn’t
care...she’s a slut. Oh, and for the record, I adore sluts.
Women crave men who know how to awaken and
handle her slutty Tigress. However, a man who just
charges into the lair of the Beast without knowing
what the hell he's doing will be mauled at best and
devoured at worst.
No, “devoured” is too genteel a term. Sending in
your Lover, for example, to tangle with a woman's
Tigress will inevitably result in her ripping him a new
asshole, fucking it lubelessly with a huge purple
strap-on and then sending him weeping into the arms
of mommy.
Only a brave man and a fool would rouse a
sleeping Beast. Only a brave man and a fool would
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think his Lion is any match for her Tigress. And only
a brave man and a fool could hope to take on a
woman's inner slut directly.
Make no mistake...
A woman's Tigress is not just sluttier than you
suppose, she's sluttier than you can suppose.
Yessir, you read that correctly.
I just paraphrased Nobel-prize winning biologist
J.B.S. Haldane's legendary quote about Quantum
physics--“the universe is not only queerer than we
suppose, but queerer than we can suppose”--to make
a point about the infinite sluttiness of a woman's
Tigress.
If I wasn’t going to Hell before, I certainly am now.
And if you can’t figure out a way to join me there,
you’re doing it wrong!
Seriously, though, a woman's Tigress is really,
really, really, really, really (that's five really’s, in case
you wondered!) slutty.
A turned on woman yearns to let her Tigress loose
from its heavily barred cage deep in the bowels of the
ship. She wants your Lion to come for her, to
challenge her, to engage in the eternal death struggle.
She wants your Lion to overwhelm her Tigress until
she submits.
She wants your Lion to be so fully invested in his
masculine energy that her Tigress can surrender
completely into her feminine.
And yet...
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As powerful as your Lion is, he can never really
tame a woman's Tigress. If her Tigress submits, it's
always because she's playing the game she wants to
be playing. She could always play a different game—
the game of killing her play partner, your Lion.
In the natural world, every species of Tigress is
larger, fiercer and deadlier than Lions. The same is
true in the dangerous, sensual, messy dance between
the masculine and the feminine. Every time your Lion
bursts into the lair to tangle with a woman's Tigress,
he risks death.
And when you're willing to die trying to tame a
woman’s inner Beast, that’s when you know you're doing
it exactly right!
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12: Special Bonus Love Note to The Dames
Whoa, lady, you're STILL here?!
What's it with you not being able to follow
directions?! I'm sooooo going to put you across my
knees and spank your bare bottom for not heeding
my one simple request: Don't Read My Book!
But since you're right here, let's visit. (Nobody
visits anymore. People used to visit. Let's bring that
back, shall we?)
How are you? You having a good day? My day's
going well, thanks for asking. Okay, enough chittychat, let's get down to brass tacks...
You need to stop thinking so loud, sweetheart!
Seriously, you’re thinking so loud that all the other
patrons at the quaint, historic coffeehouse in London
where I'm presently writing this (don't you believe
it—it's a fucking Starbucks!) are looking around
wondering where the hell all those loud thoughts are
coming from. And I wanna tell them, “It's not me, it's
her!”
But that's not even the worst of it. You're thinking
too loud AND you're thinking that much of this
doesn't apply to you.
Baby, it exactly applies to you...just maybe not the
“you” that's reading this right now.
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The you it applies to, naturally, is your Tigress and
it's about a 100% certainty that she's not out right now
or else you'd off fucking instead of reading this and,
frankly, my dear, you have no idea what your Tigress
is genuinely capable of.
I mean you do, but you don't.
And you don't really want to know.
Not really. Not at all, actually.
And there's nothing wrong with a little plausible
deniability, baby. (You do realize that I never call
women “baby” in real life? I’m just doing it here to
annoy you.) The other parts of you shouldn't have to
be burdened with the dark, decadent desires of your
Naughty Girl, much less your slutty Tigress.
So the Moral of the Story is...
Seriously, I go all the way to London—the city
where coffeehouses were invented in the mid-1600s—
and I'm frequenting a goddamn Starbucks?! Sheesh,
can I get any more Ugly American?!
Okay, baby, if you're gonna willfully disobey me
and keep sticking around, at least have the decency to
think quieter!
We cool?
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13: The Steam-Powered Man
Sorry
about that, my man. As David Deida puts it,
“You can never escape the tussle with the feminine.”
Sometimes you gotta stop in the middle of
whatever you're doing and handle the woman you're
with. You don't complain about it or get emotional.
Just handle her and get back to being awesome.
Say, do you remember that classy, pristine blonde
you saw the other day at Whole Food$ or the
bookstore or wherever?
What a sweet, innocent angel she was, right?
Guess again.
Do you know what she's truly capable of? The
nastiest, filthiest, most gonzo behaviors in the
bedroom you can possibly imagine—and quite a few
you can't!
But if you just straight up floated the idea of
getting all Rocco Siffredi on her ass, she’d be
genuinely disgusted by the very thought of it, and
quite likely disgusted at you for even mentioning it.
However in the right context, the Tigress inside
that sweet angel would willingly and eagerly get
filthier than the filthiest porn star on the planet...and
love every second of it.
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Later, she might even be disgusted by what she’d
done. But what would disgust her most is the utter
lack of disgust her supremely slutty Tigress would
feel about it.
You want to know the real kicker?
Nobody ever told her any of this.
That lovely young lady is going through life under
the impression that, deep inside, she's the nastiest slut
ever invented. She genuinely thinks she's the only
woman on the planet who wants to be commanded to
crawl on her knees across the floor to beg you to
shove your cock down her throat.
Most women feel alone in their depravity.
Sure women talk about sex with one another
plenty—far more than men ever do and in ways that
would make you and I blush.
But they don't talk about this.
They talk about the “wild” experiences their
Naughty Girl had with some mans's Lover. “He
boned me until I couldn't walk straight” is a little bit
hot. But it's a whole different galaxy--and a couple of
parsecs, to boot--from the nasty games her Tigress is
willing to play when your Lion shows up with the
full force of his passion and desire.
Women want to express the full extent of their
own power and glory in every other arena of life—
from the living room to the boardroom to the gym.
But once a woman reaches the bedroom, she wants
you to take control.
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She wants you to take charge and stay in charge,
even as you maintain a safe container around her. She
wants you to stand firm against the fury of her
attachments to her own masculine essence—until she
reaches a place where she no longer wants or needs to
worry about deciding what to do next...and then
finally lets go.
Her deepest desire is to surrender completely into her
submissive feminine energy and wait for your loving
commands—which can be as naughty as your imagination.
I'm not remotely suggesting that every woman
wants it up the ass, for example, or for you to pull out
of her pussy and cum in her mouth.
But lots do.
Lots.
Rather I'm saying that a woman's Tigress
genuinely enjoys those rare opportunities when she
gets to play harder and rougher than usual.
Women are sick to death of the current generation
of men who are little more than chicks-with-dicks.
They’re sick of weak men who don't know how to
dominate a woman and bring out her slutty side.
They’re tired of men who sex a woman as if the last
one to cum is a rotten egg, so they can hurry back to
watching The Game. They’re finished with men who
don't even know how to slap a woman's ass!
This British guy (of course!) once asked me,
“Doesn't it hurt when you slap her ass?!”
“Absolutely,” I told him, “that's the fucking
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point!”
Now you should always, always, always negotiate
boundaries and comfort zones beforehand, of course.
I mean—of course.
That said, there's virtually no act of depravity a
woman's Tigress won't sign up for once she knows
you're fully present and she feels completely safe with
you.
Women love to do taboo things, precisely because they
are taboo. Doing something you're not supposed to do
makes the experience infinitely hotter.
A woman not only wants you to lead her into the
taboo territories she's longed to explore, she also
wants you to make a big fuss about it. Explicitly
talking about the nasty things you're doing with a
woman as you do them turns her on even more.
All of this is just a preview of what we're building
towards over the course of our journey together.
Women want to get down and dirty...and it pains
them so very few men exist today who can give them
what they desire.
Stay with me on this journey, my friend, and by
the end you’ll know how to be that guy we’re talking
about here who can give a woman what she fucking
craves.
Just know up front that pleasuring a woman with
the side of you we're calling your Lover doesn't begin
to satisfy a woman's appetite.
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If anything, it only makes her hungrier.
Your Lover is for seducing a woman.
Your Lion is for fucking her the way she desires
and deserves to be fucked.
Women dream of being handled by a man like the
one you are becoming. They fantasize about being
fucked by your inner Lion. Your animal side. A Beast
with no fears...not of the world and especially not of
her.
Only your Lion can coax a woman's Tigress out
and make her feel safe and contained enough to
surrender freely to her Infinite Desire.
And that's where the magic happens.
That's where the fucking transcends fucking...and
becomes healing for both of you.
Where your combined masculine and feminine
energies heat up so much that your mutual icebergs
of hidden and repressed sexuality begin to soften and
melt--until eventually they vaporize and turn to
steam.
Here's a secret for you...
That steam can power the best sex of your life.
And another secret...
That very same sexual steam builds empires, creates art
and amasses fortunes.
And another...
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All great men are steam-powered.
And finally...
Only when you become steam-powered can you ascend
to the greatness that is your natural state and your
birthright.
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14: Your Inner Child--The Little Prince
You'd think that would be the end of the story...
Seduce woman with swashbuckling Lover—check.
Fuck her from stem to stern with ferocious Lion—
check.
Except...
That's not the end of the story.
There's yet another side of you that plays a largerthan-life role in the eternal dance between the Divine
Feminine and the Masculine Ideal.
In fact, I'm about to make a bold statement--as if I
could make any other kind!--and suggest that the part
we’re about to meet has single-handedly cost you
more pussy than every other cause combined.
No doubt, this side of you is sweet and wellintentioned. He just keeps mucking the works at the
worst time. You can either learn how to handle him
and get his needs met—or resign yourself to a life of
frustration and semi-celibacy.
Because this part of you ain’t getting nobody laid
ever. Nor should it, since he's just a little boy. He’s the
darling little boy inside you.
Your baby-faced Inner Child of 5 or 7 or however
old he feels to you.
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I like to think of him as your Little Prince, because
that's just what he is—a precious, sweet, very
important side of yourself.
A Little Prince, just like in the book, just like in real
life. So that's what we're going to call him, your Little
Prince. And he’s lots of things...
Charming
Innocent
Vulnerable
Caring
Scared
Lost
Overwhelmed
Indeed, our Little Prince almost seems to be the
repository for all those “un-manly” traits we aren't
supposed to ever allow ourselves to feel or
acknowledge, right?! But that's the point of the Little
Prince. He's the gateway to the endearing boyish
qualities that make our life more enjoyable.
Now an explicit goal of the heroic journey we’re
undertaking is to reconnect you with your most
masculine qualities. But transforming yourself into an
Alpha male does NOT mean simultaneously
becoming an asshole.
Instead, being strong, confident and NICE—now
there's a winning combination. And our Little Prince
is the Keeper of Nice. That's the game he plays.
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Now you may be reluctant to admit you have a
younger version of yourself who's a little bit scared
and lonely and could really use a hug.
But I know that you know that he’s in there.
However, you also “know” that apparently you’re
not supposed to talk about the little fellow, because
nobody else fucking does. Not one of your guy
friends ever sees you at the bar and asks, “How’s the
little boy inside you doing today?”
Right now, say how old your little boy is! Just say
it. Out loud.
What’d you say? 5? 7? Maybe a little more or a
little less?!
But you didn’t say nothing. Even if you’ve never
paid any attention to this part of you before in your
entire life, you’ve always known he was there.
You can feel him, no less than he can feel you.
And you’re not alone. Every man has a Little
Prince inside him...just as every woman has a
corresponding inner child within her, which we’ll get
to in due course, never fear.
Even Isaac Newton, the cornerstone upon which
the entire rational, scientific model is built (after all,
dude created calculus, invented reflecting telescopes
and fucking discovered gravity) left behind this
uncharacteristically charming description of himself:
“I do not know what I may appear to the world, but
to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing
on the seashore.”
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Or take one of our most popular motion picture
stars, George Clooney. Rugged and manly. Definitely
a leader. But with an engaging boyish charm about
him. His little boy is never far from the surface.
I like to refer to the boy within every man as our
Little Prince in no small part because it makes him
feel special.
And he should feel special. Because he is special.
Even if we men don't always acknowledge the
little boy within us, our female counterparts know
him all too well.
One of the primary complaints women level
against men is that we never grow up. They grumble
that we're “childish”. They dislike our unabashed
Southpark-ian enjoyment of burping, farting, cussing,
playing video games and telling the same lame jokes
over and over again. And they're especially annoyed
by our preferred arguing strategy of turning our
backs, freezing them out and staying completely
silent.
In other words, exactly the characteristics you'd
expect from a little boy who never grew--and never
will.
Peter Pan wasn’t just a story.
So we want to keep our Little Prince close, but not
too close. As I say, it's a good bet that one of your
biggest problems in the past was that you let your
Little Prince out too often and at the most
inopportune moments with women.
Understanding where your inner child fits into
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your seductions--whether of women, riches or
anything else--is paramount to your future success.
As is knowing where he doesn’t fit in.
So let’s flip the script for a moment and come at
this from a different angle. Let’s keep talking about
your Little Prince, but let’s use a name for him that’s
may be more familiar to you so you really understand
how he’s been geting in your way, and ultimately
what you can do about it. For the next while we’re
gonna stop referring to him as your Little Prince and
use the name he’s perhaps better known by: your
Nice Guy.
Ohhhhhhhhh, now you get it, right?! Now you
understand the part of you I'm talking about? Even if
you were resistant to the whole concept of having a
little boy within, you absolutely know there’s a Nice
Guy in there, right?!
And, boy howdy, is he nice. People don't always
seem to recognize just how damn nice he is. Your
Nice Guy almost never gets the appreciation and
approval he deserves, does he?
Your poor, poor Nice Guy! He has so few real
friends left these days. He's been widely demonized-often by women, and most especially by strong,
intelligent women who are sickened by otherwise fine
men who drag out their Nice Guy at the exact wrong
times.
If you ever wondered why you don't get laid as
much as you desire and deserve, it's probably because
of your Nice Guy.
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Here’s a secret that shouldn’t be a secret to
anyone...
Nice doesn't get you laid.
The distant shores of the dating world are awash
with Nice Guys--each of them dying a frustrating,
lonely death just out of reach of the Sea-of-AbsoluteFucking-Plenty!
Nice Guys think nothing of pouring attention and
money into a woman without expecting anything in
return. Your standard-issue Nice Guy brings the
ladies sweets and he writes her lovely poems with the
same satisfying ABABCC rhyme scheme he learnt in
middle school.
Nice Guys love women.
For their part, women don't love Nice Guys, but
they sure as hell like them and can never get enough
of them. From a woman's point of view, finding a
Nice Guy is like winning the New Gay Best Friend
Lottery!
Only better—because her Nice Guy isn't going to
run off with steamy Spanish cabana boy she's panting
over. Indeed, her Nice Guy will cheerfully provide a
shoulder to cry on when she crashes and burns with
other men.
And, let's be clear here...
There will be Other Men.
There will be nothing but Other Men.
There will never be your Nice Guy.
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When you're in Nice Guy mode, women think of
you as gender neutral; in other words, they lump you
into the same category as if you were British!
I kid, I kid! (Actually...no I don’t!)
Your Nice Guy is just soooooooo giving!
Women enjoy your Nice Guy’s infinite supply of
shoulder rubs (if you get nothing out of this entire
book, pal, get this: rubbing the shoulders of a woman
you’re not already fucking is a stepping stone to one
thing only--another man fucking her) and free doubleshot-choco-lattes from Starbucks (“No, baby, I got
this!”) and all his big boy help around the house
(“Ohhh, you're my Prince Charming for spending
your whole Saturday afternoon unclogging my
bathtub—now go away so I can get ready for my hot
date with Quasimodo's understudy!”).
Most women don't go around looking for Nice
Guys to exploit. But they're also not stupid--when one
comes their way they take full advantage, in precisely
the same way you or I wouldn't hesitate to pocket a
$20 bill we found laying on the street.
A woman will enjoy this free ride for as long as
possible, until the inevitable day--sometimes years
later--when your Nice Guy gets all liquored up and
slurringly confesses that his dearest wish in the world
is to insert his penis into her vagina—upon which she
will launch the I-Don’t-Like-You-In-THAT-Way app
and let him slink off to find another woman to Nice
Guy to death.
If you question 100 women who’ve snuck in to
read this book against my wishes and ask what they
want in a man, 99 of them will mention “Nice Guy”
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somewhere in the response.
But that’s a fucking lie.
They’re lying to you and they’re lying to
themselves.
Women don't want Nice Guys. They are sick to
fucking death of Nice Guys. If you took all the Nice
Guys in the world, locked them in a giant sports
arena and threw away the key, the greater part of
womenkind would be pleased as punch.
Sure, there'd be fewer eligible men around, and
the competition for them would be fierce, but at least
the remaining men would be capable of stepping up
to the plate and knocking it out of the park on any
given pitch.
One of the great tragedies of our world is that so
many good men only reveal their Nice Guy to the
world. They’re afraid to go deeper into their sexual
nature...or they simply don't know how to get there.
Some modern men even hate their own Nice Guy,
because they fully grasp everything this part has cost
them.
But you cannot hate this part of you.
For one thing, it's a part of you—and it ain't going
nowhere!
For another, it's your sweet, precious little boy. It's
your Little Prince. And when you get angry and upset
and all pissy about being taken advantage of by
women, your Little Prince feels your anger.
And that makes him very sad. And scared. And
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isolated.
Which is not good. In fact, it's exceedingly nongood. So let's discover how to fix it by rolling out a
little owner's manual for your Little Prince!
Because this is important shit, my friend.
The road to Fucking-More-Women-ville runs right
through here.
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15: On The Care & Feeding of Your Little
Prince
“So are you ready to learn how to take care of your
Little Prince...or Nice Guy...or whatever name he goes
by in your neck of the woods?”
“Wait--are you talking to me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Oh, then yes.”
“But you gotta do it the way I tell you.”
“Whatd'ya mean?”
“You can either take care of your Little Prince like
I describe—and it’ll make a significant impact on your
life and the women in it. Or...”
“Or...what?”
“Or you can dismiss all this as some kind of weirdass, touchy feely crap and continue meandering
through life like a Trekkie at a Civil War reenactment.”
“Isn't that a little dramatic?”
“Dude, you’re right. I'm so sorry. Being a little
dramatic was the opposite of my intention. I meant to
come across as completely, over-the-top dramatic-because no single part of you is more important to
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your future success and happiness in life than your
Little Prince.”
“Got ya, I’m listening.”
“It’s important to keep in mind your inner child is
always going to be a child. No matter how long you
live, he’ll remain the same age he is right now. How
old was your little guy?”
“Six years old.”
“Great. So your six year-old Little Prince has three
primary needs.”
“Lay 'em on me.”
“He needs to feel Safe.”
“Safe?”
“Yes, safe. More than likely there was a lot of
uproar in his young life. He saw and heard things he
wasn't meant to be exposed to. Situations that
frightened him. Maybe one terrible event, maybe one
too many lesser events–either way, he got hurt. He
experienced the Big Wound that just about every kid
runs into sooner or later--an emotional injury that left
him scarred and scared. He needs to know that
everything’s okay, that the worst is over and another
Big Wound can’t happen to him.”
“How do I–? Okay, this is really weird.”
“You think this is weird? Wait ‘til we get to Level
III and explore our all-new model of seduction—
there's some seriously weird shit going on there. Now
what's so weird about this?”
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“I just don't understand how to do what you're
asking. How do I let my...Little Prince--do I call him
that?”
“Call him anything you want.”
“Alright, Little Prince, that’s fine--how do I let him
know he's safe?”
“Talk to him.”
“Talk to him?”
“Yes, talk to him.”
“How...do I talk to him?”
“You go inside and you--”
“What do you mean, 'go inside'?”
“I mean, close your eyes and pretend to go inside
yourself and connect with your Little Prince. And
when you find him, take him in your arms and tell
him that he's safe.”
“Like that?”
“Just like that!”
“Oooooooookay.”
“There's more.”
“I figured.”
“Your Little Prince also needs to feel loved.”
“And I do that by...going inside and finding him
again and telling him that I love him?”
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“Dude, you should be the one writing this book!”
“Lol!”
“Did you just say, 'Lol'?”
“No!”
“But it's right there--I can see it.”
“Can't you just edit it out or something?”
“I could, but I won't. Now I’ve got leverage on
you, Mr. Lol Guy. Anyhow, let's cover his third
need.”
“Seriously, just hit the Backspace button and
delete the fucking 'lol' and nobody will be the wiser!”
“Shhhhh! So he needs to feel loved.”
“Hey, we all need approval.”
“That's so true. We do all need approval. And the
magic of what I'm asking you to do is to give that
approval to yourself--”
“By giving it to my Little Prince?”
“Seriously, dude, you’re awesome. You get
another 1000 points!”
“Really?! Now I’ve got 2000 points--sweet!”
“I’ve got another secret for you. And this one’s a
Bunker Buster.”
“That sounds big.”
“It is big.”
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“Drop it on me.”
“Your need for approval is very rarely your need
for approval. It usually belongs to your Little Prince.
Sure, the other parts of you need upstrokes, as well-but, only when they’ve done something amazing, not
every minute of every day. But your Little Prince, he
needs it non-stop, at least in the beginning, when he’s
not used to it. And, again, the person he most needs
to hear it from is you.”
“Wow...I actually get it.”
“Of course you do--because you’re fucking
awesome! And, finally, your Little Prince needs to
hear that he‘s...handsome.”
“What? Seriously?!”
“Yes, seriously.”
“Why handsome?”
“I honestly don't know why, he just does. And our
female counterparts are the same, their Little
Princess—although she's no princess, believe me!-also needs to feel Safe, Loved and Pretty.”
“So I do
something?”
all
this
through
meditation
or
“Not even. Listen, the next time you're by yourself,
sitting in your room or walking around the lake or
anything, simply place your attention within and
connect with your little man—no differently than
you'd connect with a real child if you were his Dad.”
“And then?”
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“And then hang out with your Little Prince. Find
out what's going on with him. If you talk to him, he’ll
talk back. Let him know what's going on with you.
Not all the grown-uppy details, just enough to let him
know you're living a full and productive life. And
find out what he’d like more of. One thing, for sure, is
swimming. He loves when you take him swimming.”
“I used to go swimming all the time.”
“And now?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to go swimming
now.”
“Find out.”
“Okay. But first, I still don't get how I
communicate that he’s all those things--safe and
loved and handsome.”
“You simply imagine telling him. Have you ever
imagined a conversation before you actually had it?”
“Like when I imagine that I’m telling my girlfriend
I want to break up with her?”
“Yes, or asking your boss for a raise or asking a
chick you just met for a threesome--”
“You do that? You ask chicks you just met for
threesome.”
“Yes, every time.”
“Wow!”
“Can I go on?”
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“No, I’m still processing that.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“--or whatever kind of thing you imagine having a
conversation about in advance, and then just do the
same thing with your Little Prince...except imagine it
so vividly that he hears you.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“All the coolest things are simple. Say to your
Little Prince, often and enthusiastically, almost like a
mantra, 'You are Safe. You are Loved. You are
Handsome.' Say this over and over until you feel
it...until he feels it.”
“Like every day?”
“Why not? When you’re walking from your car to
the entrance of the grocery store, check in with him.
By the way, you ever get cravings for chocolate?”
“Sure, who doesn’t?!”
“They’re his cravings, not yours.”
“So this isn’t a metaphor...this is like a real thing
you’re talking about.”
“That’s a great way to put it. It’s like a real thing. Do
you remember that quote by Newton I shared with
you, where he said, 'To myself, I seem to have only
been like a boy playing on the seashore'? He went on
to say, 'amusing myself by now and then finding a
smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, while
the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before
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me.'”
“That's beautiful! So how long do I keep telling my
Little Prince guy all this?”
“Until he believes you. Until he starts to settle
down a bit. Until he retreats back inside you, feeling
safe and loved and handsome. But you should still
visit him from time to time. Bring him pretend books
to read and an imaginary kitty to play with. Your
Little Prince loves nothing more than having a kitten
or a puppy to take care of.”
“This all sounds so...”
“Crazy?”
“That's more charitably than I would have put it,
but--yes!”
“Hey, I warned you this
weird...even Quantum weird.”
was
gonna
get
“And Quantum weird is as weird as it gets!”
“I love that you know that! And I love you.”
“Uhhhh...am I...supposed to say it back?”
“No, you’re good. Now go talk to your Little
Prince. Don’t skip this step--I’m gonna be checking up
on you!”
“Alright. Oh, hey...”
“Yeah?”
“About that ‘Lol’?”
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“No.”
“Dammit!”
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16: Her Inner Child--Alice
If
the ladies were allowed to pick one chapter they
definitely didn’t want you to read, this would be it by
a landslide. That’s because we’re about to pull the
motherfucking curtain all the way back...and I think
everybody’s gonna be a little surprised by who’s on
the other side.
Let’s just say your understanding of women is
about to change.
So, the ladies have their own version of a ‘Nice
Guy’--and hers is known far and wide as her Good
Girl. While our Nice Guy is nice to a fault, a woman's
Good Girl isn’t particularly nice at all.
The reason she's “good” has nothing to do with
niceness and everything to do with virtue. In a word,
her Good Girl is chaste. That means she's morally pure
both in conduct (the pretty actions she takes) and in
thought (the pretty thoughts she thinks.)
A woman’s Good Girl wants to be virtuous. But
even more than that--much more than that--her Good
Girl wants to be known as virtuous.
The success of your future interactions with women
rests on grasping the implications of this.
A woman strongly believes her Good Girl is
“better” than the wantonly sexual parts of her
Naughty Girl or Tigress. This deeply entrenched
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belief is why strippers, whores and outright sluts
rarely think of themselves as, well, slutty. They think
of themselves as Good Girls who are willing to do
whatever it takes to survive.
Never forget that no man or woman is a monolith.
We're not the labels that others try so recklessly to
slap on us. Even female porn stars think (and act) like
Good Girls most of the time.
When you first meet a woman, you can never go
wrong by assuming the ego state you're interacting
with initially is her Good Girl—who naturally
deserves to be treated with decorum and respect.
So that's how the world, and women themselves,
tend to think of this ego state known as her “Good
Girl”.
But now let’s get all M. Narcissus Shymalamading-dong and add our own unexpected Twist
Ending to the concept of a woman’s Good Girl.
For the first time ever, you’re going to learn the
real & true name and nature of this part of a woman.
And knowing its real name and true nature will give
you tremendous insight in interacting with women
from this point forward.
Just as ‘Nice Guy’ is a popular nickname for the
little boy within us, so, too, ‘Good Girl’ is merely
another way of referring to her inner child.
And since our inner child is so charming, boyish
and eager to be liked, you might reasonably expect
that a woman's little girl would similarly be the very
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model of Miss Congeniality.
But...nope.
As it turns out, her inner child is a nasty piece of
work, indeed.
Without further ado, the real & true name of the
little girl within every woman is: Alice.
As in the one from Wonderland.
From those books by that slightly creepy English
dude.
You may know Alice from any number of colorful
film adaptations, in which she's played by a comely
lass ranging from mid-teens to her early twenties.
However, in the original books by Lewis Carroll-itself just a stage name for the slightly creepy Charles
Dodgson--the heroine of the Alice stories is only
seven years old in the original and exactly seven and
one half in the sequel.
As with our Little Prince, this part of a woman
may feel a couple of years older or younger to her,
depending on when she experienced her own Big
Wound--but, in any case, she will be as petulant,
moody and demanding as only a 7 year-old girl can
be.
Alice is happy when she's getting her way.
Otherwise, she’s beastly little tyrant and not to be
trifled with.
Oh, she has her moments of surprising sweetness,
for sure. She can display a precious twinkle in her eye
and a girlish lilt of her voice. Her laughter can remind
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you of the ringing of miniature bells.
Don’t you believe it. Her greatest weapons is her
very unpredictability. You never know which Alice
will show up—an adorable little angel...or one of
Hell's Little Angels.
Your Little Prince has a game to play: he adds
charm, niceness and vulnerability to the experience
you bring to the world.
And a woman's Alice has her own game to play:
she's the shit-detector, the tantrum-thrower and the
“Inner Bitch” that women are so justifiably proud of.
She's Scarface with a lollipop. You can't predict
whether she'll offer you a lick of it or else bust it over
your damn head.
Just as with our Little Prince, a woman's Alice
requires her own special care and feeding. To be sure,
her needs resemble ours—her inner child desires to
feel loved...and safe...and pretty.
How they get these needs met is an altogether
different story.
Our Little Prince is so desperate for approval and
recognition that he'll believe absolutely any kind
word tossed his way. Simply tell a man he's sweet or
helpful or noble...and his Little Prince will glow with
pride for days.
Yet tell a woman she possesses any of these same
delightful characteristics and her Alice will instantly
perk up, wondering what the hell kind of con you're
trying to pull on her.
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Just so you know, Alice doesn't trust grown ups in
general and men in particular. She especially doesn’t
trust any of those over-the-top compliments and
expressions of enthusiasm that Nice Guys tend to
shower on a woman they’ve just met.
A man can sit there jibber-jabbering about how
“pretty” and “amazing” a woman is, and the on the
outside she’s smiling and nodding, but on the inside
her Alice is getting more and more pissed...clearly
you're trying to trick her in some way, shape or form
that she hasn't yet figured out and she’s not going to
stand for it.
Don’t you know that seven year old girls are not to be
trifled with?!
That's about the time the woman excuses herself to
go powder her nose at the club and you're thinking
Big Daddy's getting himself some tonight except she
keeps on powdering her nose and keeps on
powdering it and finally you realize she's not coming
back and you have no clue why.
Well, sir, I'm telling you why.
A woman's Alice wants and needs to hear that
she's safe and loved and pretty—but she needs to
hear it from the inside, not the outside.
The very fact you're saying lots of nice stuff to her
when you don’t even know her yet freaks her the hell
out.
Of course, the reason we men are so compelled to
heap flattery upon a woman we’ve just met is because
those are exactly the positive upstrokes that our poor,
underappreciated Little Prince so desperately wants
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to hear in return.
The less you praise a woman's looks or tell her
how much you ‘really like her’ upon first meeting her,
the better.
Because, in the end, Alice can only be nourished
by hearing how safe, loved and pretty she is from
within. One of the great tragedies in the lives of so
many of the best and brightest women today is they
never take time out of their busy schedules to water
the secret garden inside them where Alice lives—and
so she's in a perpetual state of being a little grumpy
and starved for affection.
But that’s not a problem you can fix. So stop
trying.
Besides, you’ve got a bigger problem to deal
with...
Your sweet, defenseless Little Prince has to play in
the same sandbox as that precious spawn of Satan
called Alice every single day from now on.
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17: The Universal Disconnect
Whenever
you're playing a specific game—whether
that game is firefighter, gangsta or underwater
contortionist in the new Cirque du Soleil show—the
only way you can actually play it is when the
appropriate part of you is “out” and doing its thing.
You cannot give a talk to a youth group using the
part of you that knows how to play tennis—even if
your talk is about tennis.
The side of you that knows how to play tennis
doesn't also know how to give talks. That's a
completely different aspect of you. (The reason why
so many experts are laughably awful at teaching
others what they know is because the side of them
that's expert in something and the side that can
communicate that expertise to others are two different
sides...and these two parts are not typically in
communication with one another--why would they
be?!--so the part giving the talk often has no more
how idea how the expert part operates than the
people in the audience.)
Whenever we’re not actively playing a game,
we’re in Down Time.
During Down Time--which can occur during our
commute home, waiting for an elevator, during
intermission of a Broadway musical and every other
slice of free time we get--other parts of us can come
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out.
Sometimes a specific since emerges because it has
an itch that needs scratching.
It might only surface for a few moments—long
enough to light a cigarette, say—before fading from
sight for the next few minutes or hours. Or your
horny Lover might emerge during your lunch break
with such a vengeance that you're practically forced
to duck into someplace private and rub one out in
order to appease him.
In theory, during Down Time any one of ego states
can come out and play.
In practice, most of them don't.
A body at rest tends to stay at rest, as the “boyish”
Isaac Newton taught us.
Unless one of our parts has a burning desire that
needs fulfilling–“I have GOT to stop procrastinating
and get out there and serial-kill somebody today!”-during the cumulative hours-ish of our daily Down
Time we tend to operate from a Default State during
which one or two regulars from our cast of characters
emerge.
Uniquely, men have two possible default states:
our old friend the Lover or our new friend the Little
Prince.
So when we’re not actively in astronaut mode or
whatever, we move through the world either as a sexstarved, life-support-system for a penis...or else as an
awkward, approval-seeking little boy.
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Women have no fucking clue how confusing it is be a
man!
Meanwhile, a woman’s default state is customarily
her little girl—her grinning, cherub-cheeked Alice
who will cut you...and then tap her foot impatiently
as she waits for you to bleed out.
As Hamlet found out the hard way, “One may
smile, and smile, and be a villain.”
Often as not, when a man meets a woman, it's not
an actual man meeting an actual woman. Instead it's
more like our little boy meeting her little girl.
Which leads directly to what I think of as the
Universal Disconnect--which states that people tend
to be both oblivious to which part of themselves is
currently out...as well as oblivious to which part is
out in the person they're communicating with.
The Universal Disconnect would be almost
comical if it weren't so damn tragical. She’s thinking
one part of you is out and you’re thinking another
part of her is out and nobody knows what the fuck’s
going on and people still have the temerity to wonder
aloud, “How come women and men can’t
communicate?”
Because we’re not even talking to each other is
why. Our inner fucking children have taken over the
asylum. It’s like Mentos hanging out with Diet Coke-you know something’s gonna go wrong somewhere!
In the 1990's, John Gray said pretty much the same
motherfucking thing using a completely different
(and completely delightful, I should add) grand
metaphor that Men Are From Mars, Women Are From
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Venus.
Despite selling more than 50 trillion-azoid copies-meaning it clearly resonated with a vast number of
men and women, regardless of their planet of origin-Dr. Gray's work continues to be studiously
disregarded by the Keepers of the Standard Dogma,
who have seriously penned dozens of academic
articles and even book-length diatribes arguing that
his insights don't square up with their “superior,
scientific understanding of the mind”...which itself is
drawn largely from performing the same kinds of
studies on the same, homogenous crop of incoming
MIT psychology students each new school year.
The vaunted War Between The Sexes is more
accurately understood as two children—one shy and
sensitive; the other petulant and moody—playing
side-by-side in the same sandbox.
Not even playing together, but side-by-side.
Finally, after hours and years of longing looks, our
bashful little boy sometimes tries to make friends
with her. And the instant a woman senses that we're
approaching her with our Nice Guy out, she's
thinking, “Oh goody, a new Gay Best Friend!”
(Noooooooot that there's anything wrong with that!)
Indeed, the very best practice for connecting with
a woman if your “plan” is to go on expensive dates
and give her lots of free meals, gifts, compliments and
shoulder rubs without getting anything in return
except The Speech--“Oh, Roger, you know I don't like
you in that way, but I still want to be best friends
foreverrrrrrr!”--is to approach her with your Little
Prince in the driver's seat.
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Just don't do that if fucking her is your goal.
Of course, actually talking a woman when your
Little Prince is out isn’t usually going to be a problem,
since this side of you is so hesitant and sensitive that
he’s mostly waiting around for a pretty girl to come
talk to him first.
No shit, there are grown men wandering through
pubs and tourist sights and networking mixers totally
locked into their Little Prince--feeling self-conscious
and shy, wondering why nobody’s paying any
attention to them, desperate for a positive stroke or
the
slightest
sign
of
recognition,
from
someone...anyone.
Seriously, there are actually men who wait for
women to approach them, who expect women to take
all the risk of breaking the ice.
You wanna know how I know this to be true?!
Because I was that guy. I was him for a
looooooooong time. Every time I left the house I took
on the persona of my good little boy. I didn't know
any better.
Nobody ever bothered to tell me that I even had a
Little Prince, much less that his insecurities and
timidity thoroughly disqualified him from being the
part of me that should be talking to women.
I cannot tell you how many evenings I prowled the
world without speaking to a single woman. I just
looked at them, really earnestly, hoping they got the
message that I “liked” them and would come up and
put me out of my solitary misery.
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Except they never did.
Except when they did.
And, believe me, having a woman finally come up
and talk to you first is the worst thing that can
happen to you...because now you believe that it's
possible...now you imagine that if it happened once it
can happen again...and so you try even less than you
did before...you talk to even fewer women than
ever...you retreat further and further inside yourself
until it seems like you're looking through someone
else's eyes at a wild party going on all around you
where everybody already knows everybody else but
somehow you're invisible and nobody notices or cares
whether you come or go.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve cried myself to
sleep.
More than once.
Listen, that little guy inside us is a wonderful,
sweet and vital part of who we are. But he's illequipped to drive an army tank, manage a nuclear
reactor during a meltdown or seduce a woman.
There are other parts of you that know how—or
can fucking learn—to do those jobs.
But it was never his fault.
We inadvertently set up our Little Prince for
failure.
He’s a good boy. A very good boy. He’s part of us.
We want and need to keep him close. Our Little
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Prince represents our vulnerability and our kindness-which are attributes we always want to cultivate.
Listen, a lot of the men who came before us ,
hunting fortunes, immortality and pussy, were not
men of honor or integrity. They were not the smartest
men in the room.
But that's changing. You and I are redefining what
it means to be a great man.
You can be great and still be decent.
A great man could, and should, also be a nice man.
If what I’m telling you about the Universal
Disconnect is true, that means many of the people
you cross paths with every day are little boys and
little girls walking around in in their big boy and big
girl bodies.
If you could see just beneath the surface of that
rough-looking man with tats on his neck or that hot
babe with the ice queen demeanor, you'd see a 7something year old hanging on for dear life, trying to
navigate through the world without crashing into
anything.
So, be nice to other people.
Realize you're often dealing with children,
regardless of what they look like on the outside.
More than two thousand years ago, Plato noted,
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard
battle.”
And you know where that starts?
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You know who you should especially start being
nicer to?
That adorable boy within you.
You've been asking way too much of him, holding
him to too high of a standard, treating him shabbily
for the crime of being himself--being a Nice Guy. He's
just a little kid, doing the best he can in a pretty damn
complicated world.
What if you started giving him a break?
Giving yourself a break?
Showing him--and you--some love?
If you gain nothing else from our entire journey
together other than a renewed appreciation and
respect and love for yourself and that handsome little
lad within you, then you will have gained much, my
beautiful friend—so very much!
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IN PRAISE of NAUGHTY GIRLS
Last
night I was in bed with a lissome British lass
whom I'd just met at a dance. As I peeled away the
remaining layers of her clothing, she rested a willowy
hand on my forearm and said, “I'm really attracted to
you, but...there's a part of me that thinks I'm bad for
doing this so soon.”
“No, you are a good girl,” I reassured her, because
she was. “And...that good girl part of you only likes
playing the games that good girls play, right?!”
“Right,” she agreed.
“But you also have a naughty girl inside you, don't
you?!”
The merest of pauses, while she checked inside
herself and found a match, and then, “Yes.”
“And your naughty girl wants to come out and
play with me now, doesn't she?!”
“Yes.”
“That's right. And your naughty girl has a secret,
doesn't she?!”
“She does?”
“Yes, she does.” I brought my lips close to her ear.
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“The secret is that your naughty girl is very, very
naughty, isn't she?!”
“Oh, yesssssssssssss!”
We did not speak again for the next hour.
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18: All Aboard!
Next
we’re going to add another layer to our
expanding model of the mind that will ultimately
help us become masters of the long, lost art of
seduction.
And to do that let's put on our Imagining Caps the
way Dr. Seuss used to do when he started a new
book--he had a whole steamer trunk full of outlandish
hats, don’t ya know–and imagine that the various
parts of us are like crewmembers on a big ship.
And the ship is a metaphor for the whole package
of Who We Are.
The outside of our ship is what others see when
they look at us--the shape, size and color of our body,
how much hair we have or don't have, the kinds of
clothes we usually wear, all that external stuff. And,
of course, everything we've explored so far concerns
the inside of our ship—since that’s where the Party is!
As long as we've got our imagining caps on, let's
get crazy and pretend our ship is an old-timey
wooden sailing ship, with lots of masts and jibs
(whatever those are?) and ropes and heavy canvas
sails to furl and unfurl. And there’s also a thing on
ships called a Poop Deck--and I don’t even know
what it’s for, but it’s a motherfucking poop deck, so
we’re keepin’ it!
So let's merge our newfound knowledge about
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ourselves with our sailing vessel...
We’ve got lots of different parts that make up our
crew, and they take turns behind the big wooden
steering wheel of our ship. Sometimes they take over
for just a few minutes—long enough to place “one
last bet” or do one “little line of coke”--and, at others,
they might take over the wheel and all but refuse to
let any other parts steer. This might be our
workaholic ego state, hell-bent on leveling up to the
next raise or promotion...or maybe our mad scientist
obsessively searching for the Truth.
At other times (lots of other times, as it turns out!),
one of our internal crewmembers finds himself at the
wheel with no earthly idea of where the ship is
supposed to be headed.
Often this part of us cavalierly pretends to be
confident and certain of our intended direction, even
while he's secretly terrified that he's doing it all
wrong—as, indeed, he often is.
Thus do we become lost at sea for days at a time or
longer.
Much longer.
Years, sometimes.
Then there are other times when none of our parts
want to take over the helm at all because they don't
feel they have the skills or experience to handle the
situation we’re in. If you find yourself walking down
a dark alley in a strange city, it's liable to dawn on
your entire crew that not one of them ever bothered
to learn, say, a martial art...and if your ship gets
attacked now it'll be defenseless.
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Substitute dark alley for approaching a darkhaired woman in a strange city, and you can only
imagine the miserable plight of the crew as they
realize that nobody ever took the time to figure out
how to turn on and seduce a woman...well, until now!
(Yay!)
Still other situations might result in more than one
member of your crew jostling for control of the
wheel—with none of them willing to back down
gracefully. This can happen when you go on vacation.
Often your ego state that knows how to do your
current job will keep showing up every morning at
work-thirty, huffing and puffing because you’re
“wasting time” digging your toes into the luxurious
sands of an expansive beach laden with semi-naked
beauties, when you should be working on that new
PowerPoint presentation for the regional director.
Finally, after a few peevish days of not getting his
turn at the helm, the job part of you finally gets the
game, upon which he repairs below decks to take a
“little nap”. A week later, when you're back at work,
it might take a day or longer to wake the sleepy
bastard up so he can take his usual, weekday 9-5 turn
behind the wheel of your ship.
As we’ve touched on before, communication
between our crewmembers is usually quite poor. Our
crew regularly don’t talk...and often don’t even like
one another.
The sexual side of many women (and some men)
is a source of much embarrassment and discomfort to
the rest of the crew—who will even try to lock that
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part away in the brig of the ship if they can get away
with it. (Which is why it sometimes takes a few shots
of tequila to bust the sexual part out--and then all hell
breaks loose, leaving various other crewmembers to
clean up the ensuing mess for days to come.)
Other unpopular members of our crew include
any that play addictive games--whether cigarettes,
gambling, drugs or collecting stamps.
Especially collecting stamps.
A great many of the problems that people believe
they are plagued with actually boil down to faulty
communication between members of their crew.
For example, since time immemorial, professional
writers have complained about a mythical entity
called “writer's block” that supposedly keeps them
from being able to do their work.
Of course, writer's block doesn't actually exist.
Writer's block simply means that another
crewmember is at the wheel of the ship and doesn't
want to relinquish control. Once you send this other
part of you packing and install your writer behind
wheel of the ship, writing cannot help but ensue.
Dude, it’s been fucking forever since I’ve shared a
secret with you, so let’s do that now and let’s make it
a good one.
As in: the secret to succeeding at life.
That's kinda important, right?!
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Now I’m going to tell you this secret, but I do not
want you to share this—or any of our other supersecret man business—with the ladies.
They've got their own lady clubs, lady groups,
lady gatherings, lady gurus and lady cults to keep
them busy. (Plus, although they keep denying it, they
also get together every Friday evening for lingerie-clad
pillow fights AND nude oil wrestling--and they
NEVER send us pics, so fuck them!)
Without further ado...
The secret to succeeding at life is to have the right crew
member steering your ship at the right time—while your
other parts either actively support it or at least stay the hell
out of the way.
And that's truly it.
No matter what game you're playing, there's a part
of you that knows how to play that game...and that
part should be—indeed, must be—manning the helm
until you decide to play some different game.
Last year, when I first began digging the
foundations for the work now before you, I lived for
three neon-electric months in Las Vegas. During the
day my writer would scribble furiously on scraps of
paper, notebooks and the backs of napkins while the
other parts of me looked on silently...and even a little
dubiously.
The other parts of me didn't even know what the
hell my writer was doing—after all, they don't know
what the game of writing entails, why would they?!-but they did know that if they stayed out of his
motherfucking way, then later on they’d get their
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turn.
Sure enough, every evening around 9 pm I’d slip
on my skinny jeans and cowboy boots, get all
peacocked up, and walk from my apartment two
blocks behind the MGM Grand to the legendary Las
Vegas Strip.
Then the other parts of me would get their turn to play
the games they liked to play.
And everybody was happy.
Since that time my ship has sailed from port to
port, visiting San Francisco, Chiang Mai, Thailand
and now London for months at a time.
By the time you read these words, I’ll be embarked
upon new adventures in some exotic corner of the
world...and my ship will also be pointed in the
direction of whatever new book I end up writing next.
Depending on the time of day or night, my writer, my
lover, my healer, my puppy body or some other part
of me, whether large or small, will be taking the
appropriate turn behind the wheel of my ship.
Because that's how we operate on the inside.
And, just for the record, these aren't just any ships.
These mighty vessels of yours and mine are more
than a little dark and dangerous. Indeed, we are
boldly sailing into our futures aboard Pirate Ships.
Because why the fuck wouldn't they be Pirate
Ships, right?!
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19: The Game Inside
Great job getting here, young man!
As a reward for all the valuable time and energy
you've put in so far, we shall wrap a big, sparkly bow
around your new understanding of yourself and your
fellow humanoids. We're about to roll out the Grand
Metaphor we've been building towards since we first
set sail together.
The Grand Metaphor we’re fixin’ to mess with will
dramatically help you improve your ability to play
any game you choose--but mostly especially the game
of seducing any available-ish woman into your bed.
(And, for the record, just about every woman is
available-ish.)
Of course, you’re the Boss of You and always will
be. So you can try out this new Grand Metaphor on
the ladies, or you can continue thinking about your
life the way everybody else does it—using the good
old-fashioned, state-approved monopoly on human
understanding known as the Standard Dogma.
To recap, the Standard-Dogma dictates that our
brains function precisely like wetwired computers,
and in order to make any changes in our life we
simply need to upload and run new software.
In short, we are merely machines and they just so
happen to have the “technology” to fix us.
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Of course, despite all the weekend workshops,
bestselling self-help books and You-Can-Do-It!
magazine articles to the contrary, humans are not
actually organized like machines.
We don't run on an operating system that can be
updated, debugged or reinstalled. People cannot
program their thoughts to achieve success in the same
way we can program a piece of software to
mindlessly run a spreadsheet or whatnot. Our brain is
not like a computer’s hard drive where permanent,
unerasable memories live. Nor is our short-term
memory akin to RAM.
Not only is this a laughably false model of how
homo sapiens really perceive ourselves and the world
around us, it's not even remotely poetic—which is
arguably the worst crime of all!
All you need to know about the Standard Dogma
is that it fails the Magic Test...
lie.
If a piece of wisdom ain't got no Magic, it’s probably a
Selling people the myth that changing our
“programming” will result in the life of our dreams
has done more damage to collective human happiness
than any movement since Barney the Dinosaur!
I wish it were otherwise. Really I do. I wasted
years of my life trying to fit the square peg of the
Standard Dogma into my the round hole of my life.
I figured that I must've been doing it wrong.
You know, User Error.
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I bought into every new and improved
“technology” of the mind in a fruitless effort to
jumpstart some of the changes I so desperately
needed to make in my life.
But...nothing.
User Error.
In the end, I realized there was no method to this
madness, it was much ado about nothing and all's
well didn't end well. My advice to you, the next time
someone tries to sell you on a brain-based, upgradeyour-operating-system-to-change-your-life
system:
run!
Run, sir!
Run as fast as you can in the opposite direction!
Escape before they rob you of your money.
Or, worse still, rob you of your dreams.
The human experience is far more complicated,
infinitely darker and one helluva lot more magical
than the sponsors of the big-data, computer-powered
Standard Dogma want you to know.
It's also a great deal more fun—as we're about to
find out!
By the time Billy Shakespeare was penning such
bewitching shows as The Tempest—which, I'll have
you know, I'm going to see next week at the Globe
Theatre here in London!--the dramatic arts had
already enjoyed a two-thousand year reign as the
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undisputed, undefeated heavyweight champion of
mass entertainment.
Then right around 1600, something happened that
threw a wrench into the works. Instead of waiting
around for a besotted playwright to finish scribbling a
new play--which would then need to be laboriously
memorized and faithfully performed--a group of
semi-employed actors in Italy created a whole new
genre of drama called Commedia dell-arte...which
took the highly dramatic step of dispensing with
scripts altogether.
Instead the players donned masks and played roles
representing various types of people: star-crossed
lovers, bumbling servants, misers and the like.
They performed their shows ex tempore—literally,
“out of the moment”, which is just a fancy way of
saying they made up their dialogue as they went
along.
The
electric
experience
of
an
actor
extemporaneously playing a role, rather than
portraying a specific, unchanging character in a
scripted play, was so wildly popular with audiences
that even four centuries later it continues to cast a
long shadow across the human imagination-culminating in a modern-day version of Commedia
dell'arte in which the players don virtual masks and
assume the guise of wizards, elves, warriors and so
on in order to venture out on pretend adventures in
an experience lasting anywhere from an hour to a
month.
Since Commedia dell'arte proved wickedly
difficult for non-Italians to spell, this newest
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evolution of the artform was dubbed a Role-Playing
Game, or an RPG.
RPGs allowed “ordinary” (as if!) people the chance
to create endless--and endlessly satisfying-entertainments on their own without waiting for a
traveling band of unwashed, improvisational actors
from Italy to show up in their living rooms.
In the 1970's, the first commercially available RPG
hit the market in the form of Dungeons & Dragons,
which dominated the imaginations of teenagers of all
ages for a decade or more until RPGs also began to
appear on the new-fangled video game consoles and
primitive desktop computers which, when totally
souped up and turbo-charged, boasted about half the
computing power of a modern-day Crock pot.
The way Role-Playing Games work is that you
pick a character to play—an avatar to represent you in
the game environment.
This could be a man or a woman, a soldier or
courtesan, good or evil, or any of dozens, if not
hundreds, of variations on that theme. Depending on
your intentions in the game, you equip your avatar
with appropriate clothes, weapons and magic
potions...and then you initially set out on a series of
small, achievable Quests.
As you go along, the Quests become more
challenging, and you need to continually improve
your “stats”--strength, experience, ability to heal, etc.-in order to continue succeeding.
The gaming environment of an RPG also teems
with Non-Player Characters—which basically means
everybody who's not under the direct control of you
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or another player.
These so-called NPCs are typically “run” by the
gaming environment itself to sell you weapons or
give you clues about which direction you should
venture next, or sometimes even to actively thwart
your success...which, come to think of it, is no
different from the real world, since it's effectively
made up of you--the Player Character and hero of
your own life--and 7 billion NPCs, most of whom are
for you, while a few jealous bitches are against you!
In addition, RPG features monsters of various
shape and size. These “monsters” range from
annoying Non-Player Characters who want to tag
along with you on your Quests all the way up to Boss
Monsters—the beating of which takes a non-trivial
amount of preparation and effort, such that you can
be truly said to have achieved an Epic Win when you
triumph over these bastards!
With the popularization of the Internet in the '90s,
RPGs naturally also went online, allowing you to play
with (and against) other players being controlled in
real time by real people from every corner of the
globe.
Since it’s against the Rules for there to be a single
innovation in the gaming world without an attendant
acronym to describe it, the experience of playing
RPGs online with a shitload of other peeps eventually
became known as an MMORPG—for Massively
Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game, often
referred to casually as an MMO.
One of the first great success in the new MMO
genre came from the seminal game, Ultima Online,
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which emerged in the late '90s from the legendary,
Austin, Texas gaming company Origin Systems—
where your friend and humble narrator also put in
80-hour weeks of my own, albeit working as an
Associate Producer on a completely different product
line (Wing Commander, baby!) just down the hall from
Richard Garriott's filthy, in-bred Ultima crew.
The current zenith of MMO's is World of Warcraft,
or WOW. With over 8 million monthly subscribers,
WOW enjoys an ongoing success of staggering
proportions that dwarves any other single artistic
property in the world. (By way of contrast, a book
might reach the New York Times Bestseller List selling
as few as 20,000 copies in a month, and maintain a
position on the list for years on end by selling merely
a few thousand more per month. And that’s for a
BEST seller!)
The ubiquitously blonde Game Pimp, Dr. Jane
McGonigal, has calculated that the world collectively
spends billions of hours every week deeply immersed
in MMOs--online Role-Playing Games.
In addition, a sizable number of these people
maintain multiple accounts—meaning they control a
variety of different avatars, each representing a
different aspect of themselves, you might say.
In one account they might be a bad-ass fighter, in
another a powerful wizard and healer, and so on.
Or they might just have the one account, but seek
out other, uniquely skilled human-controlled players
to befriend in the gaming environment and then go
on Quests with them.
Banding together into a Questing Party has been a
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prominent feature of RPGs even since the era of
Dungeons & Dragons, but it's becoming ever more
pronounced in our massively multiplayer online
world.
These days all the cool kids (who are utterly
redefining what it means to be “cool”!) join a party of
other cool kids with different abilities so they can be
better prepared for whatever unforeseen obstacles
show up in their path. (According to Jane McGonigal,
who’s become something of a celebrity spokesmodel
for MMOs, the very definition of playing computer
games is “volunteering to tackle unnecessary
obstacles”!)
Whether assembling a little Party of their own
through multiple accounts, or joining a larger
Questing Party of real-life players, role-playing
gamers clearly prefer to band together in groups in
order to seek fame and fortune in the Game World.
Now stay with me, baby--this has EVERYTHING to do
with seducing women!
I'd like to suggest there's a very good reason for
the Rise and Rise of online Role-Playing Games...and
it's because everything about the experience seems so,
well, familiar.
And the reason it seems so familiar is because
RPGs just accidentally happen to be (you know, in
case you believe in coincidence and shit) exactly how
we ourselves are organized on the inside.
At any given instant, we have an avatar who’s
“out”--and therefore representing us--and he’s
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teaching chemistry or scaling the sheer face of K-2 or
whatever he's doing...and, when he's done, another
member of our internal crew takes over and it takes
us past the next obstacle of cooking dinner or writing
a new joke for our stand-up set tonight or the like.
In practice, each side of us generally pursues its
own solitary Quest. But while our parts mostly work
in isolation, that’s not a rule or anything. Indeed, on
those rare occasions when you get two (or more) parts
of you to team together, that's where some serious
magic can happen.
Your ego state that's responsible for money could
not be more different from your artistic side. But if
your Inner Accountant and your Inner Artist can
become friends and even collaborators, that's when it
becomes possible to achieve a dream held by a nontrivial percentage of the human population: making a
living as a full-time artist.
And just like their virtual doppelgangers in the
Game World, our internal avatars in the “Real World”
(much more on this conceit later) are also always
seeking to Level Up. Our parts want to get better at
the games they play, until they achieve Mastery—and
then they want to get even better still.
Let’s bring it home...
For all practical purposes, the internal experience of
being human is indistinguishable from playing a Massively
Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game.
In both cases, there's a complete “world” to
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faring MMO called Eve Online, for example, that
world consists of an incredible 5000+ explorable star
systems...while here on Planet Earth we've also got
hundreds of countries and umpteen thousand cities to
explore.
Our experience in a Game--or in Life--is almost
entirely dependent on how well we play...how much
time and energy we put into reaching mastery in the
endeavors that are important to us.
And, in both cases, we are ultimately the Hero of
the game.
Is this shit crazy?!
Yurp, most definitely!
But you know what else is crazy?
Life.
Dat shit is serious crazy.
So to explain crazy, you need to be crazy. Or at
least think crazy. And proposing a theory of mind
that says our inner world IS a Role-Playing Game,
well, it's hard to imagine anything much crazier than
that. On top of that, we're positing that our RealWorld Gaming Environment (a phrase I just this
second made up to signify “reality”) is a vast, watery
world where we sail about in pirate ships while
unseen monsters lurk just beneath the surface of the
waves as we sail from port to port in search of loot,
plunder and wenches!
And now we can finally affix a crazy name to this
crazy-cakes model of the human experience that I’m
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offering you.
Let's call it the Inner RPG Theory of Mind,
because that's precisely what it is.
Now if you want to know who the really cool kids
are these days, just look for the ones like Gabe
Zichermann who talking about Gamification—the
practice of modeling game design elements and
applying them to the work-a-day world of customer
retention, employee motivation and the like.
What you and I are doing is standing Gamification
completely on its head and taking it to its logical
(okay, “logical” might be the worst possible word
choice ever, but you know what I mean!) conclusion
by applying Gamification to the inside of us.
Computer games are fun...and bringing the
elements of computer gaming to business and art is
also fun.
all.
But real life--that the fucking funnest thing of them
And I’ve come along to suggest that if your
intention is genuinely to succeed at playing the game
of real life, then there's a concept I’d encourage you to
integrate into every cell of your body...
The Real Game's on the Inside!
Learning to play the Game Inside is the master key
to understanding yourself.
The Game Inside holds every secret to the money
and recognition that's your due...every secret to
fucking more women than ever before in your
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life...and every secret to transmogrifying yourself into
the motherfucking superhero that is your ultimate
destiny.
So now you know the game we’re playing, my
friend.
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20: Actual Reality versus Game Reality
While
this colorful world of questing parties,
adventure and leveling up is taking place inside us,
what passes for “reality” continues its inexorable
forward march on the outside.
Let’s pour a tall, frosty pitcher of one of the bestkept secrets of them all...
The reality that humans universally-ish agree to be
true—the observable, measurable reality “out there”--and
the reality that each and every one of us actually lives in—
the one “in here”--have virtually nothing to do with one
another.
Big Education, which delivers us from toddlerness
to adultification, and Big Self Help, the pay-as-you-go
continuing education program for the rest of our life,
both champion Actual Reality--a no-nonsense,
masculine understanding of a world that is
fundamentally made up of lots of 0's and 1's.
Actual Reality concerns itself with the dates that a
certain historical personage lived and died, the height
of the Eiffel Tower in both feet and meters, and even
all the arcane, Scrabble-icious names of all the dozens
of protoplasmic parts of the 65 trillion odd cells that
make up your beautiful body.
Setting aside upwards of three millennia of
philosophical hair-splitting, we can safely say that
Actual Reality is whatever most people agree that it
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is.
Whether you've ever personally been to the Taj
Mahal or not, lots of other fine folks have and they've
taken so many methodically identical pictures of
themselves standing in front of the damn thing that
you'd be a fool to argue it ain't really there.
The Taj Mahal is a real building somewhere in
India or Antarctica or one of those places, and if you
hop on enough planes, trains and tri-shaws, sooner or
later your actual physical body will arrive at the
actual physical structure of the palace and, oh, while
you're there, remember to get your picture taken out
front!
At the same time, think of the scores of celebrities,
movie stars, rock stars and elite athletes you're aware
of. You “know” hundreds and hundreds of them by
name, face and reputation. You may know a great
deal about their background, what college they
played football at, what other movie stars they
married or fucked, the name of their soon-to-bereleased album—and yet chances are good that you
will never, ever actually meet most of them in person.
You know them only from movies and television
and tabloids. In other words, you know them mostly,
if not entirely, through your mind, not in actual
reality, ya dig?!
Same with Beethoven, Einstein and Hitler. We're
not gonna meet any of these fellows in the flesh and
blood, but they are no less real to us inside the
pretend-iness of our minds.
This is not to take anything away from actual
reality—which we all agree is quite lovely.
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Actual Reality is where they keep the flowers and
mountains and lakes.
That's also the reality we fuck in.
It's the reality you want the subcontractors laying
in the electrical wiring for your new house to be
rooted in. And should your house should ever catch
fire, you want actual firefighters to show up with lots
and lots of actual water to put it out. (Metaphors are
all well and good until your house is burning down,
right?!)
And yet...
If your aim is to understand others—or yourself,
most especially—then actual reality just gets in the
way.
The reality that you and I genuinely live in during
the vast majority of our daily existence is a parallel,
Matrix-y construct that I refer to as our Game Reality.
Game Reality depends on a feminine knowing of
the magical realm within us…which stands in direct
contrast to the relentless rush toward masculine
understanding in the nuts & bolts world of Actual
Reality,
Our search for understanding never ends.
Meanwhile, knowing has no beginning, middle or
end...it just is.
Actual Reality makes up what goes into history
books, whereas Game Reality is what's made up in
our imaginations.
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It so happens that our personal, internal Game
Reality “in here” trumps the well-documented,
exhaustively footnoted Actual Reality “out there”
approximately 100% of the time.
The ‘real’ is simply electrical signals interpreted by
your brain.
--Morpheus
Try this thought on for size...
Actual Reality is merely a pretend reality about the
world that everybody “agrees” to be true...whereas
Game Reality turns out to be the actual reality in
which each of us really lives—not least since it’s the
reality where we make every large and small decision
that adds up to our life experience.
Most of us spend far less time in Actual Reality
than we do in our Game Reality.
In no way is this meant to knock concepts that
don't actually exist.
Some of the most important stuff in our lives
doesn't exist.
Take math. (Please!)
Alone amongst the hard sciences, mathematics
lacks an empirical component. Math doesn't exist
independently of humans.
There is no math Out There...it's all In Here.
Math is just another model that helps us
understand the world. But simply because it doesn't
exist outside of our ability to think about it doesn't
make math any less useful; if you're building a bridge
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or a pyramid or a stairway to heaven, all them
numbers and calculations and shit are indispensable.
On the flipside, if some unborn genius invents a
better model for understanding the height of a
hypotenuse in a conical rhombus or whatnot, then
we'll switch over to their model...and math as we
currently know it will cease to exist in either Actual
Reality or Game Reality.
All of the ego states that we've been exploring—
the various major and minor parts being us—dwell
primarily in our Game Reality.
But, like mathematics, they cast a long shadow
across Actual Reality as well.
As I’ve mentioned, I currently live in London,
home to the West End and some of the best theatre in
the world.
But the only theatre that truly counts for any of us is
the one within.
Inside of me, there's a charming, bouncy cast of
characters that put on the show called The John
McLean Experience (TM) every day of the year, rain
or shine.
It's the longest-running show in my body. If you
are lucky enough to get a ticket, it's guaranteed to
move you. You'll laugh, you'll cry, it's better than
Cats...but not as good as Starlight Express. (Though,
seriously, what is?!)
Here's a secret you already knew, but perhaps
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forgot that you knew...
Other people mostly see you in the shared hallucination
out here called the Universe...whereas you mostly see
yourself in the private realm of your singular Multiverse.
And here's the most profound takeaway from
that...
Arguably the most grievous error men make
during a seduction is confusing our perceptions of a
woman in the Universe—rooted in observable facts
and measurable by our methodically analytical
masculine minds—with the “reality” of her
Multiverse—a tale charged with feminine magic
played out by her inner crewmembers
Once you fully grasp this, everything changes.
Every.
Thing.
For some reason this appreciation of our internal
world often surprises men, but rarely women.
Perhaps the ladies already know they live on in a
realm that operates under a completely different set
of rules...a world where even the laws of physics can
bend and change when appropriate.
From your comfy seat in the front row of the show
called Actual Reality, that sweet, black-haired Eastern
Euro babe named Riza you met earlier at the street
fair is a slender hottie with a super-sharp mind and
an exceedingly naughty girl lurking just beneath the
surface.
Over on Planet Riza, however, she's chubby in all
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the wrong places, of barely average intelligence, and
thinks of herself as introverted, shy and even prudish.
Here's a Pop Quiz for ya:
Q: Which version of reality is the “true” one?!
A: Hers. Period.
This should no longer be a secret to you...
In life, seduction and everything else...Game Reality
trumps Actual Reality every time.
The reason the Masculine is so often alone is
because the Feminine finds it difficult to breathe in
the analytical, sterile, airless laboratory of Universe.
The reason the Feminine is so often unfulfilled is
because the Masculine won't make the effort to
explore the weird, unpredictable and frequently
messy realm of her Multiverse.
Let's briefly explore the strange case of British
screen legend Audrey Hepburn.
Most normal-thinking people would agree that
this classic, doe-eyed beauty was a veritable paragon
of feminine charms.
But, of course, that's just our shared Actual Reality
take on Audrey Hepburn.
What of her Game Reality...which, again, for her is
the only reality that counted?
The world within Ms. Hepburn could not have
been more distorted and different from our own. She
believed herself to be plain on her best days, and
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borderline ugly on her worst—with feet and nose too
big and breasts too small, amongst numerous other
physical short- (and long-) comings!
Hepburn thought of her acting talents as middling,
and never fully got over the public embarrassment of
having the entirety of her singing in her signature role
as Eliza Dolittle in the musical picture My Fair Lady
secretly over-dubbed over by American playback
singer Marni Nixon.
Indeed, the deep insecurities of her “distorted” (by
our standards, not hers) Multiverse led Hepburn to flee
Hollywood completely by the age of 34 while still at
the height of her popularity. Unable to reconcile the
vast differences between the overwhelming positive
appreciation of her adoring fans and her largely
negative take within, she defaulted into her own
personal Game Reality and all but retired from the
public eye for the remainder of her life.
It's easy to decry Audrey Hepburn's absurdly low
opinion of herself as having nothing to do with reality
as we know it, but that's precisely our point here...
Reality as you and I know it has NOTHING to do with
reality as Audrey Hepburn knew it.
Or anybody else, for matter.
Including Greta Garbo. The swedish bombshell
was certainly the greatest of the prestige silent/talkie
film stars. She similarly fled Tinseltown in just her
mid-thirties over insecurities that her beauty had
faded and that she would be exposed as a talentless
hack...and lived for the next fifty years in a state of
melancholy and reclusion.
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Or, finally, consider the highest paid and most
revered star of his era, Richard Burton. You can open
the mammoth Richard Burton Diaries almost at
random--and your glimpse into his Multiverse will
reveal almost laughable insecurities and an utter
bewilderment about how he ever became so
successful.
Indeed, you will never in your life meet anyone whose
Game Reality of themselves exactly matches your Actual
Reality appreciation (or contempt) for them.
Art springs forth from the Multiverse.
Although Harry Potter doesn't “exist” in a
Universe that scientists can measure, he sure as hell
exists in the imaginations of the tens—if not
hundreds—of millions of “kids” who read the books,
watched the movies, went to the theme park and ate
Sugar-Dusted Wizard Flakes for breakfast this
morning.
Ditto Buffy, Bugs and Spongebob.
Not real...but still real.
Again,
like
mathematics--the
ultimate
Fictionalism...a model of the world that is technically
“make believe” and yet which is inordinately useful if
we mutually pretend it's not.
(Special Totally Not-Made-Up Bonus Fact: When
aspiring mathwrights first join the Mathwright's
Union, they are required to “clap if they believe in
maths” and sternly warned that if they ever stop
clapping then mathematics will cease to exist...just
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like Tinker Bell.)
So here's the big secret we've been driving
towards...
You do not seduce a woman in any world you can
observe and measure--you seduce her in the Technicolor,
Surround Sound world of her inner theatre.
Even though we’ll never fully understand the
Multiverse of a woman we’re seducing, we most
certainly can learn to navigate the beguiling seas
within her well enough to play many fun and
exceedingly naughty games.
And that leads us to–
Wait, hold the fuck on for a moment!
I just realized we're missing something here.
There's a big fucking piece of the puzzle we
haven't yet accounted for.
You already know what it is, don’t you? I bet the
second I mention what it is, you’ll be like, “Dude, I’ve
been wondering the same thing for a while now--I
was trying to tell you, but I didn’t know how!”
Hey, next time do what the ladies do: THINK
LOUDER!
Externally we live in the Real-World Gaming
Environment, while internally we function according
to the Inner RPG Theory of Mind. But here’s the
question--here’s the missing piece we’ve overlooked-how do our various crewmembers know when it’s
their turn at the wheel...and how do they know where
they’re supposed to be going?
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In other words...
Who the fuck's in charge around here?!
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21: So...Who's In Charge?
Perhaps most people lead lives of quiet desperation,
in Thoreau’s oft-quoted take on the Universe,
however, down in their Multiverse it’s a fucking loud,
madcap carnival where sometimes one crewmember’s
at the helm steering one way and another one comes
along and steers in a different direction and there’s
yet a third who keeps lowering the sails because he
just wants to chill where they already are, and still
another has a stomach ache but everyone’s ignoring
him because it’s always something with him--and,
through it all, nobody know who--if anybody--in
charge inside us.
Which seems like it would be kind of a useful thing
to know, don’t ya think?!
So let's put on our Sherlock Holmes hat and bust
out our meerschaum pipe as we set off to discover
who’s calling the shots around here, shall we?!
The first and most obvious candidates for the
position would come from the ranks of our Major and
Minor parts...except for the inconvenient fact that
each of them already has a game of their own to play.
In any case, none of the individual parts we’ve met so
far has the perspective to make global decisions about
the overall direction in which we're headed.
And even if they did have some kind of “master
plan”, it's not likely they'd ever get much buy-in from
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the rest of the crew.
In a phrase...
Our parts don't play well together.
There's often a quite a bit of finger-pointing, namecalling and back-turning going on in there—you'd
think they were ALL five to seven year-olds the way
they act sometimes!
Which is a bit of a problem since—well, lemme
share with you another secret...
Our decisions are never made in isolation.
Or, better still...
All our decisions are group decisions.
Whether we're deciding to eat an ice cream cone or
move in with our girlfriend, some of crew members
are gonna be for it and others against it.
Every decision we make—big or little, it don't
matter—is the result of one of our ego states wanting
something and then either getting (sometimes
reluctant) acceptance from the principal members of
the questing party within us all...or else railroading it
through over the objections of others--often with hell
to pay for their boorishness just down the road.
If one part of you really wants to eat that entire box
of chocolate donuts, it can always bum rush the
steering wheel and gobble them little bitches down,
but it's gonna hear about it for the rest of the fucking
week as your other ego states berate it soundly for its
ninety seconds of stolen glory.
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Oh, by the way, I've got another little secret for
you that some motherfucker sure as shit should've
mentioned to you earlier rather than let you go
through life wondering if you're fucking nuts or
something...
You know those voices in your head--that nearly
constant, mostly negative chatter going on between
your ears which nobody ever fucking talks about?
Yeah, those voices! Have you ever wondered what
that is? Like, who the fuck is in there yakking and
yakking all the time?
Most of that chatter—approximately 85% of it—is
comprised of our various ego states talking to one
another, usually in most uncivilized and uncharitable
of tones!
And like any good dysfunctional family, they're not
even really listening to one another.
Their idea of “negotiation” consists of more than
one side talking at the same time while saying the
exact same thing over and over again...which is why
they usually repeat themselves ad nauseum.
We'll circle back and explore the (possibly quite
surprising) source of the remaining 15% of your
internal voices—a totally made-up number, by the
way, just in case you wondered where I got this or
any other fact-like nugget that might inadvertently
find its way into the Big Top of the 3-Ring Circus of
Prosody that passes for my writing style--in due
course.
As long as a few parts of us resolutely want to do
something like, say, abruptly quit our job as an
attorney and become a full-time artist (a career track,
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by the way, that I heartily endorse!) then our other
ego states are occasionally willing to go along for the
ride—as long as they get to keep playing their own
games
Of course, it’s also possible for a particularly
insistent ego state to get all Dark Lord of Mordor on
its fellow crewmembers and unilaterally dictate its
iron will, upon which a heavy pall can fall over the
ship for interminable stretches.
Maybe that’s happened to you before...it certainly
happened to me.
The part of me that used to smoke became so
strong that it eventually overwhelmed my other
crewmembers completely--ultimately reaching a
point where it smoked fully five entire packs of
cigarettes every single day. This was a vast drain on
the rest of the crew's available time, money and goodwill...and its reign of terror lasted for years and years.
The rest of the crew didn't at all appreciate how
Lil’ Smokey had taken over, but he was so powerful
and intransigent in pursuit of his own game that they
were powerless to resist him.
Except...you want to know what they did?
My other crewmembers met secretly below decks
and talked in hushed tones about their upset with this
one overbearing part of me. Although Lil' Smokey
wasn't the boss of the ship (the only thing he was
truly in charge of was smoking more cigarettes each
day than any human alive), the crew essentially
treated their upset as a mutiny.
So they banded together to create a plan, and then
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they carried out that plan. They recruited a little-used
part of me whom we might call the Hypnotist, since
that's precisely what he was.
He was “born” years earlier when I happened to
study the art of hypnosis with the late Gil Boyne—at
that time widely considered the finest hypnotist in the
land—but this part gradually faded into near-oblivion
as other aspects of my life rose and fell in importance.
The other members of my inner questing party
woke up my Inner Hypnotist and put him on a
training regime that rivaled Rocky IV.
For realz, day and night, day and motherfucking
night for more than two full years of my life did the
Hypnotist repair to his laboratory like a Mad Scientist
to prepare for his planned showdown with Lil'
Smokey.
He read every available book on psychology and
alternate states of consciousness and shamanistic
healing ever written.
He absorbed thousands of hours of videos,
podcasts and webcasts on topics ranging from
motivation to cellular biology to Quantum mechanics.
Along the way he successfully hypnotized scores
of people for scores of problems until he himself
became one of the finest hypnotists in the land.
Upon which he finally came after Lil' Smokey with
guns a-blazing.
But their first encounter was disastrous. Lil'
Smokey had pretended to be oblivious to all this
frenzy of activity going on “behind the scenes”, but
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he knew exactly what the other parts were up to.
He’d watched the Hypnotist's years of training
with bemusement, but also some wariness. Lil'
Smokey knew precisely what was in store, and he
wasn't about to back down from the fight.
During their initial battle, the Hypnotist raged-and yet Lil' Smokey clung to the wheel of the ship for
dear life.
And when the storm ended, Lil' Smokey had
prevailed. Immediately, gloatingly, he lit up another
cigarette...and then another and another, to his
customary tune of 100 per day.
The crew huddled together in a panic. What to do
now? For two long years they had set aside many of
their own needs—my Puppy Body was fat and
bloated, some 80 lbs. overweight, while my Lover
hadn't gotten laid once during the past twenty-four
months. They’d given the Hypnotist as much
available bandwidth as possible, but it still wasn’t
enough.
Yet, they remained determined to regain control of
the ship, and they continued to back the Hypnotist's
ongoing efforts to increase his stats and experience
points, if you will.
Finally, nearly a year later, came another Big
Showdown, and this time the Hypnotist handily
defeated the smoking avatar that had lorded it over
the others for so long.
So complete was his defeat that Lil' Smokey went
out with a whimper rather than a bang.
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Overnight, this part of me went from five packs of
cigarettes per day to ZERO without the slightest
withdrawal symptom or upset. He agreed to forever
stop playing the game of smoking and instead play a
new and different game—one that better served the
needs of the rest of the crew.
True story, by the way.
The moral, of course, is that just because one part
of us can dominate our lives for years through
smoking, drugs, alcohol or the like, doesn't make it
“in charge”.
Hell, a certain percentage of people, either through
cultural grooming or watching one too many animal
cruelty documentaries, develop a Vegetarian side of
themselves...which itself can wield a Mussolini-esque
level of power over their eating and (and even
accessory) choices.
When know-it-alls come along and try to
“explain” to a person why being a vegetarian isn't
normal or healthy or something, it has the same
impact as warning someone not to smoke cigarettes.
Look, not eating animals IS the motherfucking
game the Vegetarian part plays. It's not going to stop
playing its game because some Paleo jackass comes
along and says they really oughta eat more beast.
And it doesn't remotely matter to this part whether
following a Paleo lifestyle actually is both a True and
Useful eating strategy for health and weight
maintenance.
Here’s the thing...
All our parts think the game they're already playing is
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the best of all possible games.
And our other parts just have to live with the
consequences.
Either we all eat steak...or nobody eats steak.
You want to know why smokers get soooooooo
annoyed when you lecture them about the evils of
cigarettes?
It's because as soon as you start telling them how
awful it is, their smoking part scurries belowdecks
and hides, while the other slower-moving
crewmembers who happened to be hanging around
have to endure yet another person’s tirade about a
game they don't even fucking play.
Our parts only care their own game.
Whereas being in charge means looking out for the
greater good of the community as a whole--because
that's exactly what we are on the inside, a community.
As our search for someone in charge continues,
let’s return now to the other voicces in our head. You
remember, the totally made up number of 20%?!
(Sure, it was 15%, but...you know, inflation!)
First of all, who the hell's voices are these if they're
NOT the voices of our own crewmembers?!
Well, my man, there's no easy way to break this to
you so I'm just gonna blurt it out-You got Stowaways!
Yup, there are peeps hitching rides on your boat-some hiding belowdecks and others walking around
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in plain sight like Andy Warhol’s Slovokian mother
living with him full-time at The Factory. These aren’t
“real” people, mind you--they couldn’t exactly fit in
your head, could they?!--but rather are virtual, 3D
holographic versions. You might even think of them
as holo-people.
They include folks who’ve made a strong
impression on you—good, bad or ugly—at some
point in your life. These stowaways can include (but
are by no means limited to) such holo-visitors as...
Your mom
Your dad
Mentors
Childhood teachers
Religious figures—both historical or from your
actual past
Comic book heroes
Playboy playmates from years gone by
And an assemblage of celebrities, crushes and
characters from literature or motion pictures
These days every 12-14 year old girl in the Western
world has at least one member of the British boy
band, One Direction, as a stowaway on their
ship...and, believe me, her “relationship” with Lil’
Ringo or Groucho or whatever their little Limey
names are is probably more significant than any
relationship she currently has with any real boys in
her life.
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Your stowaways can be like the Retirees from
Hell! They don't pull their own weight; mostly they
just sit around complaining about the direction you're
headed, the service on board the ship and/or the
weather. (Always the weather!)
On the rare occasions these days when I play the
game called Hypnosis, by far the #1 request I get from
women is, “Can you hypnotize my MOTHER
to...[move to another city / leave me alone / support
my dreams for a change instead of hers/etc.]?”
And I tell them, yes, I CAN hypnotize their mother
to achieve any of those objectives—but only if that's
what their mother actually wants...and if she comes to
me personally.
In any case, I explain, the problem isn't even their
mother--whom they may only see or talk to once
every month or three.
The problem is their stowaway holo-mom, who
lives inside them all the fucking time and offers an
endless stream of unsolicited and undesired
suggestions on “appropriate” choices in men, career,
clothing, friends and so on.
Pablo Picasso, meanwhile, was lorded over by his
domineering father, who was never satisfied with his
son's output--both in Actual Reality or in his Game
Reality. Picasso’s holo-dad would stomp about the
great ship, exhorting junior to use his considerable
talents to finally become a “serious” artist and stop
frittering away his life doing goddaman cubist
paintings or worse.
Characteristically, Picasso ignored him and did
whatever the hell he wanted anyway.
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What distinguishes a scratch golfer from one with
a Q card and a viable career on the PGA Tour has far
less to do with their skills at swinging a club than it
does with their ability to manage and/or tune out the
noisy crowd of doubters, nay-sayers and
troublemakers stowed away within them who take
the relative silence of the golf course as a green light
to remind the hapless duffer how much he sucks
at...well, everything.
You wanna see what happens when the
stowaways run amok and commandeer a ship in midcourse so they can gleefully run it aground like the
Costa Concordia? Just watch the tape of any one of
Phil Mickelson's slow-train-wreck-can't-look-away
losses at a Major near you.
It's a straightforward task to require any of your
stowaways to walk the plank and rid them from your
ship forevermore, but that's well outside the
investigation you and I are currently conducting.
Although several of our stowaways would relish
the chance to be in charge of everything—and,
indeed, often think they already are—in the end,
these are not the droids we are looking for.
So what about Jesus--can He be the one in charge
of us?!
And the answer, without a doubt, is yes.
Yes, indeed, Jesus (or any representative of one of
God's wholly owned subsidiaries such as Judaism,
Islam, Buddhism or Rastafarianism) can be your
Game Master. And you can have quite a happy and
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even productive life with Jesus & Co. calling the
shots—so long as sign up for them to oversee every aspect
of your entire existence.
You can't do this halfway. For it to really work,
you've have to go all in like Saint Fucking Augustine
or else you can just forget the whole thing. (Actual
True Fact: Saint Augustine's job title was, “Bishop of
Hippo”...that’s not relevant to anything, it’s just
funny.)
What I'm saying is that God cannot be your copilot. God—or Karl Marx or the leader of your local,
neighborhood sex cult—has got to be flying the
motherfucking plane day and night while you hang
on for the ride. If that's the case with you, then keep
on flying the friendly skies, baby!
A full-fledged religion or even a full-time, sleepaway cult can and does serve as the Game Master for
a good many people...however, if that's the case with
you, then shame on you for reading such a wicked
book as this! I'm totally telling on you the next time I
have a conversation with God!
The more we run out of candidates for someone to
be in charge of your ship’s crew, the closer we’re
getting to the truth.
With that in mind, here's a fun game you can
play...
Pick a friend. Any friend. Invite them for coffee or
tea or yak's milk or whatever they drink in your neck
of the woods.
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Sit them down and after a polite preamble, throw
this out there: “What's it like inside you? Is it...a little
crazy? Chaotic sometimes? Maybe lots of times? As if
nobody really knows what the hell's going on? As if
nobody knows for sure if they're doing the right thing
or not. Should they keep doing what they're doing...or
do some other thing? There’s...there’s nobody in
charge, is there?!”
In just about every case, your friend will stare at
look at you like they've just seen a ghost, and they’ll
ask, just above a whisper, “How the hell do you know
that?!”
And you can smile and say, “Lucky guess?”
Here’s the truth...
Your average person simply doesn't know the hell's
happening—or even supposed to be happening—inside
themselves.
As mythologist Joseph Campbell nimbly put it,
“Life is like arriving late for a movie and having to
figure out what's going on without bothering
everybody with a lot of questions.”
Now, sure, if the friend you ask is Sir Richard
Branson or any other bad-ass playing at the very top
of their game, then their mileage may vary. But for
99.99999999999999999999999999% of the other people
you come across in your daily lives, there's currently
nobody within them—no part, no stowaway, no
nothing—that's demonstrably and definitively in
charge.
Here’s the real secret of our own personal Game
Master...
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Within most people, there’s nobody in charge.
Instead they drift from environment to
environment, controlled by others and doing what
they're told while there.
At work, their boss tells them what to do during
the workaday hours. Around the house, either their
partner bosses them around or else the TV and
Internet tell them what to believe about the world.
The majority of people drift through their seven or
eight decades of life doing whatever others outside of
them tell them to do...others, by the way, who also
don't have anybody in charge within them and so also
don’t know what the fuck’s going on.
Now this is through absolutely no fault of their
own.
Nobody ever sat these people down and said, “Oh,
you ought to know there should be a Game Master”-or whatever term you wanna use–“inside you to
direct your various crewmembers, because it will
make succeeding at life about 10,000 FUCKING
TIMES EASIER!”
By sheer coincidence (again, if you believe in that
sort of thing), the prevailing theory of mind known as
the Standard Dogma leaves out this conversation
entirely...because they want to be the ones in charge.
Well, fuck dem bitches—we're doing it differently,
me and you.
You DO have a part of you that’s in charge.
But--and this is the biggest fucking but of them
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all!--that ego state isn't acting like it’s in charge
because it's super-duper busy doing something else.
And what, you may ask, is this side of you so busy
doing that it doesn't have time to perform what you
would think would be its most important job—being
in charge of all the other parts of you by performing
the good offices of being the Captain of your
motherfucking Ship?!
Do you really want to know what your Captain is
busy doing instead of playing the only game he’s
supposed to playing?
'Cause I gotta warn you, the answer ain't pretty!
This next secret might be the biggest one of them
all—and lemme tell ya, we got some whoppers to
come!--and it goes like this...
Your Captain is asleep.
Yup, the Captain of your Ship is fucking sound
asleep with a hastily scrawled “Do Not Disturb” sign
hanging on his cabin door.
I don't know about you, but I think maybe it's high
time we got the crew together and started figuring
out a way to wake his ass up?!
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22: Your Reluctant Hero
One of the reasons why humans tell each other the
particular stories we tell is because we’re trying to
understand ourselves better. So it should come as no
surprise that perhaps the most common hero in the
entire arc of poetry, literature and drama since the
dawn of civilization is the Reluctant Hero.
The reluctant hero is a Captain who doesn’t want
to be a Captain if he can possibly help it--a figure
plenty capable of greatness, but whose strong
preference is to do a whole lot of nothing instead.
Like a lot of us, right?!
This character is so pervasive that mythologist
Joseph Campbell built an entire career around
identifying examples of the reluctant hero in the
writing and story-telling traditions of every culture
that ever existed.
By splendid coincidence (again, if you believe in
all that), the quintessential contemporary exemplar of
the reluctant hero just so happens to be my own
namesake-ish pal, John McClane, portrayed by Mr.
Bruce Willis in the delightfully enduring Die Hard
franchise.
As a rule, John McClane is drawn into each story
decidedly against his will—commonly arriving
unshaven, sleep-deprived and still half-drunk from
the night before. (Which explains why he can’t even
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fucking spell “McLean” right!)
Our own inner Captain is also the consummate
reluctant hero, and can be a damn sight harder to
recruit into the plotline of our life story than a New
York City cop on semi-perpetual suspension for some
misdeed or another. In the movies, there's always a
big, splashy Nakatomi Tower that wants saving...but
our day-to-day lives are decidedly less dramatic.
Even in my own high-energy lifestyle as a
bestselling author, playboy & globetrotter, there are
long stretches where nothing of even passing interest
takes place as I immerse myself in completing my
latest book.
But, honestly, it's in these quiet moments that we
need our Captain most of all.
So what does he do, this Captain of ours? Or what
could he do if he were to be awakened from his heavy
slumbers?
Big picture--he makes sure your vessel is always
sailing in the direction of your current Epic Quest.
Little picture, he directs your other crewmembers to
perform their appropriate jobs at the appropriate
times.
Suppose you're an automobile mechanic by
profession. If, instead of sending in the part of you
that knows how to fix cars, your Captain mistakenly
summons the wildly creative side of you that likes to
dress in drag and sing show tunes, then you may lose
all of your customers in short order. (Of course, you
may also find fame and fortune as the “Cross170
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Dressing Singing Mechanic”, so maybe it's worth a
go!)
Each of your crewmembers is always on its own,
individual Mini-Quest of improving its ability to play
the game it plays–whether that means lowering your
handicap in golf or handicapping the horses--and one
of your Captain's duties is to make sure they stay on
top of their games, as well as get the resources they
need to play them. (It does no good for your Captain
to give your Inner Artist space to play and permission
to play there, but not provide him with canvases,
brushes and a sexy French beret.
Your Captain also helps your crewmembers plan
ahead. Once upon a time the part of you responsible
for earning your bread and butter had to learn but
one role in a lifetime. A man might be a tinker, sailor,
soldier or spy...but very rarely all of them.
Nowadays it's common for people to change
careers—not jobs, but totally separate career paths—
three or more times.
Which means their job part needs almost constant
training and retraining to stay on top of the demands
that are put on it. And it's the Captain who can take
the long view and plan ahead for such eventualities.
It can be unusually difficult—nay, borderline
impossible—to lose substantial weight or undergo
any radical habit change while your Captain's still in
drowsy-land.
One of the great values of Alcoholics Anonymous
is they successfully wake up the Captain of any
drinker who shows up on their doorstep—and a rude
awakening that often is! And the whole point of
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continuing to attend AA meetings is to keep the
Captain awake, since, if he nods off again, a person's
ability to resist the siren song of booze can dwindle
rapidly.
Naturally, AA refers to the Captain as “God”-which is perfectly fine with both the Captain and
God.
Additionally, your Captain knows he can't just
order your ego states around willy nilly. Like all
pirate crews everywhere, your inner gang needs to be
wined and dined every step of the way.
Here's a secret that will serve you well the rest of
your days, if you’ll take it to heart...
All seduction starts from within.
The path to greatness requires that you seduce
your crewmembers first and everyone else a distant
second.
And you need your Captain for that.
Wow--just like that, you’ve reached the end of
Level I! I’m so fucking proud of you! While I sincerely
hope you like what we’ve covered so far, I promise
you it just gets better and better as we go along.
And the best shit’s still ahead.
Next up we’re gonna build your personal stats all
the way through Level II--culminating with showing
you exactly how to wake up your Captain and keep
his lazy ass awake from now on.
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And waking your Captain up is worth the price of
admission alone, my friend...so you do not wanna miss it!
Here’s a preview of your journey, just down the
road...
Not too long from now, when all is going well and
your crewmembers are progressing on their separate
Mini-Quests, and you’re sailing to the port of your
next Epic Quest, and your little boy is happily tucked
away below decks, feeling safe and loved and
handsome, and your Captain stands with strong legs
planted firmly on the deck of your stately pirate ship,
with the great canvas sails above almost buckling
under the wind, and you can say, loud and confident,
“I love being me!” and mean it--that's when you know
that you’re well and truly on the path to greatness.
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CONGRATULATIONS—YOU HAVE
COMPLETED LEVEL I!
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Cooked by Magic
“Hang on a sec, I've got a question.”
“Sure. Wait—what?! You're interrupting the flow of
my book to ask me questions?”
“It's not just your book. I'm part of the experience now,
right?!”
“Okay, yeah, fair enough.”
“So isn't it really our book?”
“I like it. Hey, look at you all takin’ charge and gettin'
Captain-y and shit!”
“Ha, maybe a little. Baby steps. So my question
is...ummmmmm...”
“Yesssssssss?”
“I'm just gonna say it--dude, are you kidding me with
your name? You are seriously named after the Die Hard
guy?!”
“No, I’m not named after him, but yes, that's my real
name!”
“Hold on a sec, your Actual Reality name...or your
Game Reality name?”
“Nice...both. It's really the name on my birth certificate.
Even stranger is that I sorta look a little like him.”
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“Uhhhhhh, no, you don't.”
“What?! There's a passing resemblance.”
“Not really.”
“We're both all muscle-y and have shaved heads.”
“But...he's handsome.”
“I'm handsome.”
“Uhhhh, okay, but you're writer-handsome...he's
movie-star-handsome.”
“I’ll accept that.”
“But I'll pretend like you totally look like Bruce Willis
if you'll say it.”
“It?”
“Yes, it. You know exactly what I’m talking about,
tough guy.”
“I'm not gonna say it.”
“Oh, c'mon, just say it!”
“Noooooo!”
“You want me to keep reading your book, right?!”
“Of course I do. More than anything in the world.”
“Well, I'm going to stop reading right now unless you
say it.”
“I don't believe you.”
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“Pinky swear I will.”
“Ugh, okay, okay, I'll say it: 'Yippee-ki-yay,
motherfucker!'”
“That was fucking awesome! One more time--one more
time!”
“No--that’s it!”
“Alright, I got another question.”
“Shoot.”
“It's more serious.”
“I should fucking hope so.”
“What you've been sharing up until now is so
completely...different...from anything I've ever heard
before that sometimes I can't help wondering, how the hell
do you know all this?”
“That's funny, the question I keep asking myself is, how
the hell does everybody else NOT already know all this!
Lemme ask you a question. How much do you know about
Isaac Newton...a little or a lot?”
“I know some. I know Newton was one of the most
famous scientists who ever lived. I know he invented
calculus, because I had to take two semesters of it in high
school and I wanted to know who to blame for that black
hole in my life. I know there's talk he might’ve had
Asperger's because he had no friends, no social skills and
rarely left the house—he just got up every morning and
solved problems in physics and optics and mathematics for
18 hours straight and then went to bed and then got up the
next day and did the same thing every day for his entire life
without even the distraction of checking his FaceBook
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status because it wouldn't be invented for another 300
years.”
“Wow, you know a lot about Sir Isaac!”
“I watch a lot of PBS.”
“Duly noted. There's just one important distinction
you left out—it wasn't merely scientific problems Isaac
Newton was solving every day. There was another subject
he was equally passionate about.”
“What's that?”
“Magic.”
“Magic?”
“Well, not magic-magic. Not sawing a woman in half
magic.”
“What other kind of magic is there?”
“Real magic. Alchemical magic.”
“As in turning lead into gold?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I read a lot of Dan Brown, too.”
“Gotcha. So the fabled search for the Philosopher's
Stone required Isaac Newton to become intimately familiar
with the many mystical and unseen forces of nature.”
“That doesn't sound like Newton. Isn't he the guy who
invented the scientific method? I thought he was supposed
to be the most logical and rational person human of all
time?”
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“That he was. And...he also devoted more than two
decades of his life to an intense, even obsessive, study of the
dark, forbidden alchemical arts. Night after night he pored
over secret texts banned by the Church and performed
arcane magical rituals that could’ve led to his
excommunication or even execution. He worked feverishly
around the clock, distilling compounds, melting metals and
pronouncing forbidden incantations in cryptic languages.”
“This is crazy!”
“Sir Isaac famously said that to create his body of work
he had to “stand on the shoulders of giants”, but he wasn't
talking about any of his scientific contemporaries—whom
he regarded as a sorry lot of weak-minded dunderheads, in
any case. Instead, Newton referred to the revered
alchemical masters who'd preceded him, blazing trails into
the most esoteric and magical of the scientific arts.
However, after 25 years of laboring, he ultimately broke off
his alchemical studies.”
“Do we know why?”
“Newton was nothing if not a practical man. He finally
managed to prove to himself that the Philosopher's Stone
did not—indeed, could not—exist, and that was the end of
that. But while he didn't figure out how to turn base metals
into gold, as a direct result of putting in his requisite
10,000 hours into alchemy, the part of him that played the
game called Science within him had reached such an
unusual level of Mastery that he was able to discover
something much larger and more important.”
“There's something
Philosopher's Stone?”
more
“Yes, it's called gravity.”
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“Oh. They didn't have gravity back then?”
“Well, they had it, but nobody knew about it.”
“That makes more sense.”
“It would simply never have occurred to a rational man
of science that a magical force of nature might exist that-through no visible or physical means that we can discover-could influence other objects at a distance, whether that
distance was just a few microns or across the entire
expanse of the universe.”
“I guess gravity's a big deal.”
“It's the biggest deal of them all. Gravity not only holds
the solar system in place, but it binds the hundreds of
billions of stars in the Milky Way together, along with
several hundred billion other galaxies in the universe. And
that's just the Observable Universe. The sparkly bits that
we can actually see make up less than 5% of the mass of
universe. Fully 25% of the universe is Dark Matter and the
remaining 70% is Dark Energy.”
“Are those more totally made-up numbers?”
“No, not at all.”
“Not even a little?!”
“Okay, maybe I rounded them up a little!”
“Ha, I knew it! Doesn't it feel good to be honest for a
change?”
“Not really, no.”
“You'll get used to it.”
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“I hope not. Anyhow, what I'm saying is that no
rational person from the halls of science or academia with
ever have come up with such a ridiculous notion as
postulating that every atom in the universe was almost
supernaturally bound to every other through some titanic
and yet inexplicable phenomenon known as gravitation
unless they'd first been cooked by magic!”
“Cooked by—what?!”
“Magic. Isaac Newton was cooked by magic.”
“What does that even mean?”
“All those long years of exposure to bewitchments,
divinations and the black arts cooked Isaac Newton's brain
through and through. As a result of being cooked by magic,
Newton was able to make the leap to a whole new level of
thinking about the universe being held together by a vast,
mysterious and unknowable phenomenon of nature.”
“Hold on, gravitation's not unknowable. We know all
about it.”
“Actually, we don't know all about it. To this very day
nobody totally understands the exact mechanisms through
which gravity works. You've heard of Richard Feynman?”
“Sure, the kooky, Nobel Prize-winning physicist?”
“The same. He said, 'Today we do not understand
gravity in terms of anything else like electricity or
magnetism. Gravity is independent and different—it sticks
out like a kind of sore thumb.'”
“So you're saying gravity is magic?”
“No. Fuck gravity. I'm saying Isaac Newton was
magical—he was cooked by magic.”
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“And alchemy’s the way to get there...to become cooked
by magic?”
“It’s a way to get there. You can also can do it through
the arts. The deeper and deeper you go into any artistic
pursuit, the more you get cooked by magic.”
“We can't all be artists.”
“Maybe not, but we can all be artistic. Besides, even
'real' artists like Dali and Picasso aren't so much artists as
they are chefs, cooking up magic for the rest of the class.
Richard Feynman, no lie, did his best physics in the dark,
sensual world of strip clubs, furiously scribbling complex
equations on paper napkins while his brain was being
cooked by over-loud music and the press of sweaty, halfnaked female flesh all around him. His fellow physicists—
ultra smart dudes like Hans Bethe and Robert
Oppenheimer—regularly referred to Feynman as The
Magician.”
“Somehow that doesn't surprise me. I heard he also
loved to pound the bongos whenever possible.”
“Indeed! You can also get cooked through travel or
mystic pursuits. In the early '70s, an unknown geek named
Steve Jobs went to India. His experience was equal parts
beautiful, horrendous, spiritual and pedestrian. But India
cooked Jobs to a crisp. He came back and almost
immediately founded Apple Computer...while remaining a
lifelong Buddhist and vegetarian, keeping his finger on the
pulse of the magic that had cooked him.”
“India cooked the Beatles, too, right?!”
“Indeed it did. India has cooked many a great man.”
“So you're saying magic is the answer?”
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“No, I'm saying magic is the question. Magic can teach
you to ask questions nobody else would even think of
asking.”
“How do you get cooked by magic, then?”
“It doesn't matter how you do it—just find a way to
explore the crazy. Past life regressions, psychedelic drugs,
mystical religions, tantric sexuality or dolphin energy
healing are all magical in their own right. I'm not making
the case that specific wisdom can be found IN these arts,
I'm suggesting that the path to fundamentally new and
original thinking passes THROUGH them. When you
start believing that some crazy shit might actually be true
is when you can also start really coloring outside the lines
in business or health or software design. I've played around
for years in alternative healing modalities like hypnosis and
chakra balancing and shamanism and more. They're all
fucking nutty. None of them are true...except when they are
true, which is most of the time. But the deep study of them
changes you--”
“It cooks you?”
“Yes, it does. Listen, some of the best and brightest
minds today are in the business world. But many of them
are utterly incapable of truly original innovation or
quantum leaps in thought such as Newton and others have
made. Why do you think that is?”
“Because...they haven't been cooked by magic?”
“Exactly, exactly, exactly. You're familiar with Thomas
Edison?”
“Fucking duh.”
“Did you know that one of the most eagerly anticipated
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inventions during his lifetime—and one he talked about
obsessively with friends, colleagues and even the press--was
his Spirit Phone, which would enable people to
communicate with the dead.”
“For real?”
“Yup, that bitch's brain was cooked all the way
through!”
“I'll say! What happened to his Spirit Phone?”
“Edison died before he could finish it, but he actually
hoped to continue working on it in the Beyond. Even his
great scientific rival and arch-nemesis, Nikola Tesla—a
man now widely considered to be Edison's intellectual
superior—was guided by intense mystic experiences and
religious visions from his earliest childhood all the way
through his life.”
“So what you are telling me is that, besides all the
awesome stuff I'm going to learn about turning women on
and seducing them, that I should go off on my own and also
dive headlong into the study of some utterly bizarre and
potentially useless field of knowledge or pursue outlandish
artistic endeavors or travel to distant, exotic lands simply
because these will somehow magically cook my appreciation
of the world so much that I can eventually make quantum
leaps of thought that will lead to even greater
accomplishments in my life.”
“Holy shit, perfect--wish I'd said that!”
“You'll get there, young man. Maybe you just need to
be Cooked by Magic a little more.”
“Don't we all, baby, don't we all?”
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“By the way, has anybody ever told you look like Bruce
Willis?”
“Nope, never.”
“Didn't think so.”
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GOOD JOB—YOU HAVE REACHED
LEVEL II!
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LEVEL II
A NEW MODEL of YOU
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23: Discovering The Secret Sauce of Greatness
Congratulations on arriving at Level II! What a badass you are! You've earned yourself another 5000
points--bringing your running total to a sexy 7000
points.
Look, I realize that I've been throwing an awful lot
at you. If you've come this far and your head hasn't
exploded, give yourself a hearty pat on the back.
You deserve it.
And if your head has exploded...then grab some
damn tissues, clean up the mess and let's get back to
business!
Meanwhile, many lesser men (and all the women,
duh!) have long since stopped reading. Because they
know better. They're way smarter than that. They're
smarter than me and they're smarter than you. They
know this Inner RPG theory of mind—seriously, we're
organized like a fucking role-playing game?!--cannot
possibly be true since it's never been measured by any
of the great measuring devices or studied in any of
the great studies undertaken by the Keepers of the
Standard Dogma who are duly charged with
measuring and studying exactly these kinds of things
and then letting us know what they find out.
And since nobody ever let us know about it, then
the Inner RPG model cannot possibly be true.
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Quod erat demonstrandum!
(That's Latin for, “In yo face, bitch!”, in case you
wondered.)
Of course, they have a great point. It's entirely
possible that not one concept, one secret or one
distinction that I've shared with you so far--or that I'm
gonna share with you if you continue this adventure-is True.
Well, you know what I say? I say...
Fuck the Truth!
(Although it's gonna have to get in line behind
gravity and “dem bitches” for its scheduled fucking!)
What matters far more than if something (a theory
of mind, the existence of God, the “spooky” theory of
Quantum Entanglement) is True or not is...if it's
Useful.
And it turns out that my Inner RPG model is
exceedingly Useful—but only if you want to do
things like turn on more women than ever before and
fuck them in the way they so deeply desire and
deserve.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we just lost every academic in
the world with that last pronouncement!
But fuck academics!
(We might even move them to the very front of the
line!)
Here's the only question you need to ask yourself
as we go forward...
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Do you wanna get laid like a pirate...or like an
academic?
Then choose accordingly.
Now that you've leveled up and are possessed of a
hard-won understanding of how all humans operate
on the inside, we're going to spend time focusing our
energies on one specific iteration of homo sapiens:
You.
To that end, we're first going to get all N=1 on
your ass, building your “stats” to improve your
ability to attract higher caliber women through
helping you get a handle on your beautiful body and
present yourself with greater style.
After all, you wouldn't go up against a Boss
Monster in an online RPG without having sufficient
strength, weapons and battle points to make it likely
you'd prevail, would you?!
In exactly the same way, this whole section of THE
SEDUCTION BIBLE is designed to level you up to the
point where you're prepared to hunt even the hottest
of the hotties out in the Real-World Gaming
Environment.
Additionally, we're gonna gamify you in earnest
as we delve into the Game Reality within you to
discover how improving the quality of play of a few
key members of your crew can make you that much
more shag-alicious.
And, finally, we’re gonna keep moving you in the
direction of our ultimate goal.
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You DO remember our ultimate goal together,
right?! (And your answer better not be: “Get more
pussy”!)
Our ultimate goal is for you to fully and
completely step into your greatness.
Steve Jobs often noted that rival hardware and
software companies shipped so much “shit work”
because they failed to understand “how much
craftsmanship goes into turning a great idea into a
great product.”
Anybody can have a great idea.
Very few of those great ideas ever become great
products.
That's why Sturgeon's Law postulates that “90% of
everything is crap”.
Craftsmanship was behind everything great that
Steve Jobs accomplished at Apple.
Here’s a burning secret to keep you warm during
the long Winter of Discontent we each must endure...
Craftsmanship is the secret sauce of greatness.
You, sir, are a great idea. But we need to apply
some craftsmanship to transform you from that great
idea into the “insanely great” man you've always
been destined to become.
So that's what we're doing here. You know, in case
you wondered.
This is fun, right?! Seriously, are you having a
good time? 'Cause I'm having a fucking blast!
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I thoroughly enjoy your willingness to keep
playing this crazy game with me. I hope we get a
chance to meet one day so I can hear wild, sordid
tales of your success with women and with life—and
maybe we'll even have a chance to go out and create
some new, naughty adventures together.
Maybe we'll meet twins.
Conjoined twins.
Would that be sick or what?!
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24: Awakening Your Questing Party
In the absence of a Captain, our inner crewmembers
grow complacent and lazy—even to the point of
falling asleep. At any given moment, several of our
major and minor parts might be totally asleep, and so
aren’t able to perform their jobs. Which can put us in
a bit of a sticky wicket, as the Brits supposedly say, if
a particular part is required to help us achieve our
goals.
If your current dream is to join the US Foreign
Service and the part of you that was once upon a time
adept at the Russian language is dormant, then your
chances of getting in would be diminished.
In that case, during the weeks and months leading
up to the arduous tests and interviews required for
admittance into the Foreign Service you’d want to
wake up your inner Rusky by reviewing your hardwon knowledge of the language and using it as much
as possible.
If there was no boss at your job, some of the
employees would half-asses it around the joint, others
wouldn’t bothered to show up at all.
Similarly, our parts can stop coming into the
office...until we once more begin insisting that they
do.
As a teenager, I taught myself to juggle as a
teenager and became fairly adept at it. When I went
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off to university, I stopped juggling and ultimately
forgot about that side of me entirely.
As a natural result of disinterest and disuse, the
part of me that had learned this art fell asleep...all
through my twenties and half of my thirties.
Fast forward to about three years ago, when I
woke up one day and realized I hadn't juggled since
my teens. I'd forgotten that I even knew how. So I
found some balls and started playing the game called
Juggling again.
I still remembered the basics, of course, but my
skills had deteriorated during all those Rip Van
Winkle-y years, and it took many hours of practice
over the ensuing months to fully reawaken this part
to its former glory. And now I’m a much better
juggler than ever before.
Waking up a sleeping crewmember is easy...
Simply start playing the game it plays and it will
eventually awaken; it doesn't really have a choice, since no
other part of you knows how to play that game.
Three years ago, when I decided to juggle again,
there was an initial period when I had three balls in
hand and then I started throwing them in the air. If
you'd been there in Actual Reality with me, you
would have seen one ball after another being
launched into the air and then caught by the opposite
hand until pretty soon I failed to catch one or all of
them.
Life can often be pretty ho-hum on the outside...but it’s
almost always a madcap, door-slamming farce on the
inside.
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So if you'd been able to enter my Game Reality
during that first juggling session in some fifteen
years, it would’ve been rather entertaining...
At the moment when I threw the first ball in the
air, every one of my crewmembers then on deck
would've scrambled for cover, since not a one of them
had the first clue how to play this game called
Juggling. Much chaos, yelling and frenetic running
would have ensued.
Eventually the brouhaha would've caused the
juggling part of me to stir...and he would have made
his way sleepily to the deck to discover the haps.
Instantly he would've grasped the situation—the first
ball that I'd thrown had arced towards my opposite
hand and it was about to be time to catch it and then
throw it again.
Although surprised and still drowsy, my juggling
part would've shouted something like, “Oh, I got
this!” as he dashed to the steering wheel and took
charge—catching that first ball and throwing it in the
air again, and so on with the infinite game called
juggling.
The Universe operates according to Real Time...as
determined by whoever the fuck decides that shit.
Meanwhile, our Multiverse runs on its own
internal system of time we can call the Game Clock.
In the second or so it took the first ball to reach its
apogee and begin descending towards my opposite
hand, the brouhaha within me took several minutes
to unfold according to the Game Clock.
So that's how I woke up my juggling part.
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You can wake up any of your dormant crewmembers by
following the same path of giving that part of you space to
place and permission to play there.
If you want to awaken your spiritual side, duck
into one of the great cathedrals of the world and that
part of you will figure it the fuck out.
Any part of us, whether major or minor, can fall
asleep—and they regularly do.
In the course of your seductions, you will
encounter women whose sexuality has fallen asleep
for one reason or another. Now it’s certainly possible
to rouse a woman's Naughty Girl from her slumbers-if only for an evening--however that requires pouring
a considerable amount of energy and passion into
your seduction in order to jump start that sleeping
side of her...which, if this is something a woman truly
desires--and it sometimes is--can be a fantastic use of
your abundant masculine energy and passion.
Of course, sometimes a part isn't asleep, it simply
doesn't exist.
Imagine you're walking down the mean streets
and some thugs steps out of the shadows to mumble
something about having some crack for sale. You do a
quick check-in with your crew and if you do not find
a side of yourself that plays the game called Smoking
Crack, then you politely decline. (Of course, if one of
your crewmembers happens to be playing the game
called Undercover Cop, then your response may
vary!)
I never developed an ego state that gambles. I
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lived in Las Vegas for three entire months last year
without spending a single nickel on a game of chance.
When I walked through casinos, I was as
unimpressed as a lesbian at a Chippendale's show!
I wasn't resisting temptation...I was simply devoid
of it.
In the same way, it would never occur to you to
spend the afternoon practicing the violin unless you
already had an ego state which at some point in time
had learned to play the damn thing.
You cannot play a game unless you already have a
member of your crew that knows how to play it—or
is at least willing to learn.
Which is, of course, why we don’t already know
how to do everything.
It's possible to create a new side of ourselves at
absolutely any point during life, but the older we get
the more ZING we need to apply to creating this new
part if we want it to survive the birthing process. You
can generate a new ego state that scuba dives, speaks
Hindi or bends it like Beckham at 50 or 90, but you
better bring some motherfucking juice, baby.
One of the tasks facing your Captain is to waking
up and assembling the appropriate crewmembers to
successfully reach your next Epic Quest, whatever
that may be.
Usually this entails rounding up the Usual
Suspects--but one of the great charms of the human
race is that we can set out to accomplish things we've
never done before.
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If your current dream is to write a novel, then
you're gonna need a side of your that plays the game
called Writing in order to realize that ambition. And
that's the purpose behind reading a book on
becoming a writer or attending writing seminars and
conferences, etc.--to help you give birth to this new
part of you and nurture it until it can survive on its
own.
Once formed, each of our parts possesses a
burning desire to get gooder and gooder at playing
their game. Our inner clothing designer loves nothing
more than evolving into the second coming of Jean
Paul Gaultier.
The part of us that plays the game called Healing
is driven to improve its ability to help us recover from
big and little medical setbacks—and grows frustrated
when the aging process finally outstrips its ability to
level up and maintain the body in perfect health.
This innate drive to become better, stronger and
faster explains why smokers tend to smoke more
cigarettes with each passing year. Despite the
smoldering disdain from the rest of the crew, the part
of us that smokes takes great pride in playing its
game and enjoys leveling up to 3 packs per day or 4
or the Mt. Everest of Smoking that my Lil' Smokey
once scaled of 5 full packs of cigarettes each and every
day.
If a crewmember keeps playing the same game
long enough it can reach prodigious levels of
accomplishment.
In his book-length TED talk, Outliers, Canadian
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journalist and bon vivant, Malcolm Gladwell
popularized the 10,000 Hour Rule—which proposes
that if we put in enough thousands of hours of
dedicated practice, any one of us can become a badass in any conceivable human endeavor, whether it's
hockey, card-playing or ventriloquism.
More recently, a clever chap named Robert Greene
wrote a book called Mastery, in which he gamely
explores the preternatural abilities of masters who've
reached the lofty perch of 15,000 or even 20,000 of
focused practice in a discipline.
I’d like to add an important, but widely
overlooked, distinction here...
This mastery process only applies to a single member of
our inner crew at a time.
If I give my juggling side the gift of 10,000 hours of
practice over the next few years, I would be one of the
top jugglers on the planet.
We interrupt this program with Breaking News...
There are only so many hours in the day.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled
programming.
Obviously, if my juggler hogs all 10,000 of those
hours, then the rest of my questing party will suffer.
Which is fine IF my current Epic Quest is run
away and join the circus. However, if my ambition is
to make a living as a concert pianist, then perhaps
tickling the ivories would be a better use of my free
time than throwing some stupid balls in the air and
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catching them again.
In the vocabulary of MMOs...
Our stats are non-transferrable.
In an actual online Role-Playing Game, if a lone
member of my questing party defeats a Boss Monster,
his experience points will increase. But, unless the rest
of us were active participants in the skirmish, his
victory has no bearing on our stats.
Being seriously good at telling stories doesn't
automatically also make Joss Whedon an expert
linguist or world-class chess player. Those members
of his crew—if he even has them—have to develop
and enhance their abilities on their own.
That said, it's also true that like attracts like. As
one side of you becomes more of a bad-ass by
marching inexorably in the direction of 10,000 of
focused practice, it naturally prefers hanging out with
other bad-asses—in the same way that millionaires
like to hang out with other millionaires and celebrities
with other celebrities.
When one crewmember levels up, others may
become inspired to join the first one. This is why badass people are often bad-ass in several different areas
of life.
Gary Vaynerchuk isn't just a social media expert,
he's also a world-class authority on wine AND he's
working on putting in his 10,000 hours to become an
Awesome Dad.
And, yes, being a Dad is a part of us that must be
generated ex nihilo--from nothing--like any new part.
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Except it’s the exact opposite of nothing...if you've
ever experienced that electric moment of looking at a
pregnancy urine test-strip and seeing the + sign
appear, that bubbling, whirling, churning feeling in
your gut is the birth of a new crewmember that will
henceforth be known as Dad.
When a part of us attains the level of mastery, the
payoffs can be many.
Becoming “10,000 hours good” in almost any
artistic endeavor—even something as “lowly” as
juggling—can usually be parlayed into a handsome
living.
Similarly, becoming a master at computer
programming, plumbing or cartography (they still
have that, right?!) will earn society's unending
appreciation in the form of a regular paycheck and all
the admiration that accrues to that profession.
At the same time, folks frequently develop parts of
themselves that become really, really good at
behaviors that are not well-rewarded or wellregarded by others.
If you become a master at writing hour-long
television shows, people will line up to throw money
at you.
But if you become a master at watching hour-long
television shows--and people do--nobody takes much
notice...except your beleaguered wife on her way out
the door.
But that's just on the outside of you. On the
inside...well, you already know that everything
happening on the inside goes down in its own
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separate reality.
In the razzle-dazzle realm within you, no part is
any better or more worthy than any other.
In Richard Feynman’s Multiverse, the part of him
that played the game called Bongos was just as
legitimate as the part of him that played the game
called Theoretical Physics.
Here’s one of the most important lessons we can
ever learn about ourselves or others...
Regardless of the “value” placed upon a game in Actual
Reality, any game one of our crewmembers plays is equally
worthy in the domain of our Game Reality.
We all have one or more ego states that play
games that may be considered “worthless” out in the
Universe, but we still like playing them. Within our
Multiverse, a crewmember that plays the game called
Pothead is as legitimate as one playing the game
called Medical Student.
Yet, while that may be true on the inside of us, it's
not always the most useful strategy in the grand
scheme of things.
Apropos which, you have two distinct
crewmembers that may be suffering from some level
of sleep-inducing neglect, and I’d like to have a go at
seducing you (what else?!) into waking them up and
getting them back on track in their own pursuit of
10,000 hours of Hoopity-Doo.
So let’s quickly examine each in turn.
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25: Letting Your Puppy Body Out to Play
Your
success in any of the games you like playing
depends upon the crewmembers within you getting
juicy opportunities to play those games on your
behalf.
We've already made the acquaintance of our
Lover, who can seduce women for us, our Little
Prince, who can make himself a charming ally of the
people we meet, and our Captain, who can
increasingly awaken from his slumbers and steer the
entire ship of you into the brightest of all possible
futures.
And now I'd like to offer you a totally different
way of thinking about your body than you've perhaps
ever been exposed to before.
Big Medicine (a wholly owned subsidiary of
Standard Dogma, Inc.) insists that your body is a
mechanical contraption made up of many thousands
of moving parts, a fair number of which can be
replaced or repaired when they break—rather like
you'd replace the rear window of your car if those
pesky kids down the street “accidentally” break it
with their damn ball-playing and tomfoolery.
Indeed, whenever your body faces a real crisis, the
mechanistic model proves to be both True and Useful.
A couple of summers ago when I crashed my bicycle
in downtown Austin and broke my collarbone, I sure
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as fuck went to the hospital to let the good doctors
have a go at fixing it.
However, Big Medicine's model of the body has a
fatal flaw. By insisting that humans are only an
assemblage of parts, they've painted themselves into a
corner from which they can never ever escape.
Here's the big secret that Big Medicine will never
endorse, but which every adult already knows to be
true...
Your body possesses a consciousness and intelligence of
its own.
Not only that, but your body even has its own ego
state to represent it amongst the colorful panoply of
characters inside you, and it answers to the
deliberately bouncy moniker of Puppy Body—but
that's only because the name Tigger was already
taken!
Not only is your Puppy Body a full-fledged
member of your inner crew, but it's also arguably the
“smartest” part of them all—responsible for a great
many of the functions that scientists and
psychologists who have never been cooked by magic
misattribute to our brains.
Just to offer you a single example out of
many...besides the other delightful games it plays,
your Puppy Body also happens to be the primary
repository of your traumas.
Now holding onto a trauma might not seem to you
or me like a very enjoyable game to play, but we're
not the ones playing it, now are we?
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Our crewmembers take their games quite
seriously. In any case, just because something is a
game doesn't inherently mean it has to be fun.
Smoking cigarettes is not a remotely enjoyable game
to play, but that doesn't deter the very determined
part of us that smokes from “playing” it with great
earnestness and at every opportunity.
Just to be as clear as an unmuddied lake, our
physical body has an avatar amongst the members of
the questing party within us. Our Puppy Body can
look like what we imagine ourselves to look like-which is usually a far cry from what everybody else
thinks we look like--or it can even look exactly like a
real puppy.
Either way, this part possesses the unique
distinction of existing both in the Multiverse Game
inside us, and in our physical flesh and blood version
out here in the Universe.
Which leads us straight to...juggling.
Whenever I go to juggle, various crewmembers
and stowaways watch with wary bemusement for a
couple of moments and then, unable to restrain
themselves, one or more of them finally busts out
with something like, “What's the point of this,
exactly?”
On the one hand, they DO have a point. There is
no real point to juggling. It's just a swell example of
what the People In Charge of Naming Things call an
Infinite Game—a game without a distinct starting or
stopping point, and whose only goal is to continue
playing.
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Hunting, of course, is the quintessential infinite
game...which is precisely why there is no conceivable
end to the amount of monuments to build, wealth to
amass or women to seduce.
We don't do these things to win...we do them so
we can keep playing the game.
So when I'm juggling, each time I catch the ball my
“only” reward is that I get to keep playing the game
called juggling for one more throw. I throw the ball
back in the air, and if I successfully catch it again,
then the fun continues.
Most of our inner crewmembers don’t understand
infinite games. They prefers Finite Games, in which
there's a beginning, middle and end, along with a
demonstrable winner and one or more losers at the
conclusion.
So the first time I miss a ball when juggling, one of
my parts goes, “Ha, ha, you lose! Okay, now that
you've lost that game, let's go do something else!”
Upon which my Captain tells them, “Uhhhh,
we’re not playing this game for you. We’re playing it
because it's the game the Puppy Body wants to play
right now. Why don’t you go hang out in the Ready
Room with the rest of the gang—and when we're all
done here we'll let you know.”
Well, they can’t argue with that. So they trundle
off and I'm left alone to juggle.
Except, I'm not alone at all.
I'm there with one of my best friends in the
world...
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My Puppy Body.
Our Puppy Body is the most authentic physical
expression of who we are in the world. On the
outside, it's made up of muscles and bones and
squishy bits that are animated by undistilled puppy
energy. At its best, it leaps and gambols and cavorts
about the Real-World Gaming Environment,
unrestrained by traditional thoughts.
When I'm juggling and miss a catch, my Puppy
Body doesn't judge or criticize itself for missing.
Instead it breathlessly says, “Pick the ball up! Throw
it again! Throw it again! Wheeeeeeee!”
When you're fully in Puppy Body, you are in a
state of pure being.
No thoughts.
No judgments.
No story about what's happening around you and
no plan about what's coming next. You’re just fully
present and alert.
Of course, you don't have to juggle to connect with
your Puppy Body. Dancing like a fool, splashing
around in a body of water or even good, oldfashioned walking around for hours at time are
perfectly legit ways to let your Puppy Body out to
play.
One of the outcomes of our j0urney together is that
you'll discover how to create more opportunities in
your life to fuck.
And you know who loves to fuck?
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Your Puppy Body.
And you know who loves to fuck even more than
your Puppy Body?
A woman's Puppy Body.
Because it can tolerate even more stimulus and
hold onto more sensation than ours. Forget Boy Meets
Girl...when Puppy Body meets Puppy Body, now
that’s a fucking party!
As a boy, being in your Puppy Body was your
natural state. You moved through the world
completely connected with your arms and legs and
fingers and “feet-fingers”, as the Polish say, since, no
lie, they don't have a fucking separate word for toes.
If you caught the first whiff of a desire to climb the
nearest tree, before you knew it you were thirty feet
off the ground, precariously balanced on the thinning
branches near the top, the wind in your hair and a
smile on your face, with no thought at all about the
“point” of climbing a tree.
Having a relationship with your Puppy Body isn't
a relic of your long-gone youth, it is your natural state
and your birthright.
I could write an entire book on helping you
reconnect and fall back in love with your Puppy
Body.
Oh, wait...as it turns out, I already did.
Although the Low Carb Revolution looks like a
weight-loss book, it's really a love story.
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A love story about rekindling your affair with
your beautiful body.
And regardless of the shape and size of your body,
it is beautiful.
Here’s the only secret to falling back in love with
your body that you need to know...
Your body is beautiful exactly the way it is right now.
That said, if you start letting your Puppy Body out
to play more, a natural result is that your body can
become leaner, fitter and happier.
You've no doubt heard that women are not nearly
as attached to the outside of the package—our height,
weight and looks—as are men. Women often say they
don’t care what men look like, because it’s their
insides that matter most.
But here's of womenhood's most closely guarded
secrets...
Women are not nearly as unattached to the outside of a
man as they pretend.
All things being equal, a woman will select a fit,
stylish man over an overweight schlubb decked out in
XXL warmups and an ill-fitting t-shirt that makes him
look 8 1/2 months pregnant basically 100 times out of
100.
Yet it has become firmly entrenched in the modern
male psyche that women “don't care what we look
like”...and as a direct result we've let ourselves sink
into Jabba-the-Hut-esque levels of gluttony and sloth.
Along the way, we’ve become more and more
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disconnected from our beautiful bodies. We've taken
refuge inside our heads, self-imprisoned in our own
personal Matrix—plugged into the digital chaos of
computer screens, televisions, newspapers, magazines
and, by most recent counts, more than 10,000 separate
advertising messages each day.
The real party is in your body.
Your Puppy Body craves touch, connection and
intimacy with others and with yourself.
And, frankly, your Puppy Body misses you. It
misses the attention you paid to it when you were a
wee lad. It misses how connected your brain and your
physical body once were. How you used to move
through the world like a puppy—with boundless
energy and enthusiasm.
You really want to attract more women?
Fall back in love with your body and they'll find you.
No lie.
Because when you love your body, you feed it real
food instead of carb-age and processed Krap.
When you love your body, you let it out to play
every day.
When you love your body, it shows.
As a lovely byproduct of rekindling the long-lost
love affair with your Puppy Body, the deeper you go
in this relationship, the less you'll weigh and the more
spring you'll have in your step.
Men who are well connected with their beautiful
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bodies are regularly given the same social value
“points” as men ten or even twenty years their junior.
Again...
This isn't about getting INTO shape...it's about get
OUT of your head and back into your body.
The Low Carb Revolution is a sweeping adventure
of some 460 pages, the final third of which also
introduces an entirely new model of Habits--how our
habits are formed and how we can change them more
easily than we ever thought possible--that we simply
won’t have the space to address here.
I want you to get it and read it, my man, because
it’ll jump start your relationship with your Puppy
Body.
And you already know you’ll like it since I fucking
wrote it, so what else is there to think about?!
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26: Releasing Your Inner Artist
Sometimes
it's fun to build slowly up to a big
reveal...while at others it can be a treat to just kick
things off with the punchline, so let's try it that way
around this time.
Here’s another secret to getting more women in
your bed...
Make more art.
The more you open up to your creative expression,
the more attractive women will find you. If you're
living a creative life, a woman can smell it from a mile
away, she can sense the art coursing through your
veins...and it really turns her on. And it turns the rest
of the universe on.
Everybody’s favorite psychedelic madman &
mystic, Terrence McKenna, liked to say: “The
universe is an art-making machine--an engine for the
production of ever more novel forms of
connectedness.”
The “art” you make can be absolutely anything.
It can be what we traditionally think of as art, such
as writing epic poems, painting frescoes or sculpting
figures out of mammoth blocks of marble. Or it can be
gardening, knitting, building musical instruments,
playing musical instruments or even something as
humble as banging on bongo drums.
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It can be tagging, poi spinning, decoupaging,
busking or dancing.
In fact, if you want the most artistic bang for your
buck combined with a built-in audience of women to
bang, make it dancing.
You wanna know where the hottest women in
your town hang out?
Dance classes.
But whatever it is, do something creative. Make
some kind of art. Not even for the money, but for the
experience of it. Besides, all the cool kids make art.
Think about it...
In most cultures, the people with the greatest social
value are ALL artists to a greater or lesser degree.
We're talking actors, comedians, filmmakers and
rockstars. Even professional athletes are merely artists
whose bodies are the brushes and the playing fields
are the canvases.
Successful artists of every stripe often make the
most money, command the highest status and enjoy a
practically unlimited selection of willing sexual
partners.
Women feel there's something enticing about a
man who's connected to his creative urges.
As the giddy psychonaut Terrence McKenna
reminds us, “We emerge out of nature as its finest
work of art.”
Look, I'm not suggesting you quit your job, grow
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your hair long and hit the road to travel and make art
full time. (But if you do, look me up and let's hang!
I’ve got Buenos Aires, Paris and Reykjavik, Iceland on
my itinerary for next year.)
But whatever you do, don't give me any of that, “I
am not creative” crap.
Of course YOU are not creative.
That’s because you are not even “you.” You’re just
pretending to be “you”. All the parts of you are really
you--and you definitely have a creative part since
every other human being alive also has one--and
you’re special, but you’re not that special that you
don’t get a creative part.
You wouldn't necessarily suspect it by glancing
around at the sleepwalking zombies you rub
shoulders with every day, but all humans have the
capacity for nearly infinite creative expression if they
would just let their Inner Artist out to play more.
Imagine being a fly on the wall at a meeting of a
Fortune 500 company's board of directors. No duller,
more conventional collection of tight-asses could
possibly be assembled in a single space.
Now rewind them back 60-odd years to when they
were all bouncy, pouncy Kindergarteners. Slap a
piece of construction paper and some crayons in front
of them. These adorable little creatures with their cow
licks and chapped lips were capable of producing
crazy, colorful art to rival Andy Warhol and his
sometime partner in crime, Jean-Michel Basquiat, put
together!
The only difference between the Kindergartener
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selves and the current selves of the old fogies in the
boardroom is that their creative sides have fallen
sound asleep over the years—as any part can do if it
doesn't get enough opportunities to play the game it
likes to play.
It's not just our Captain who falls asleep. Any of
our inner crew members can fall asleep...and they
often do.
I want to suggest a tried and true method for
waking up your creative side. First, find a
traditionally licensed and credentialed therapist,
preferably one with lots of extra letters after their
name. Next, sign up for a package of expensive
sessions to just talk about becoming more creative. If
after five years you are still not more creative, it's
perfectly acceptable to switch to another therapists
and start all over again.
And then—okay, I can’t continue this any longer
with a straight fucking face!
Fuck traditional therapists—AND the Trojan horse
they snuck in on! (Both of which are warmly invited
to proceed directly to the head of the line in front of
the other hallowed institutions awaiting their turn to
be rogered to within an inch of their life!)
I'm about to save you years of therapy for getting
back in touch with your inner creativity. Here's the
secret to waking up your creative side--or any side of
you, major or minor...
Use it.
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If you a plop down a sketch pad and some colored
markers on the table in front of you, your Inner Artist
will happily emerge, seize control of the markers and
fashion a masterpiece. (By definition, each and every
creative expression is a masterpiece.)
The moment you step on the dance floor for your
first Tango lesson is the moment your creative side
comes sliding down the brass firehouse pole within
you and lands squarely in your shoes, reading for
some fancy dancing.
Waking up your creative (or any) avatar boils
down to our tried and true formula of:
Giving it a space to play
And...
Permission to play there.
If you want to explore your creative side in greater
depth, especially as it pertains to writing a book of
your own, find your way to Amazon.com and pick up
a copy of my book, Real Artists Ship.
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Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way
to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the
shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a
friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly
can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have
created something.
--Kurt Vonnegut
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27: Dressing For The Hunt
As long as you're gonna dabble (maybe...hopefully...a
little?!) in being more artistic, it's not that much of a
leap to suggest you might similarly become a little
more creative in your dress and grooming. Most men
pay way too little attention to how they present
themselves.
It's not so much that men have bad style as they have
no style at all.
Which is great news for you and me, because
they've set the bar so low for the rest of us that if we
make even a few modest changes in gussying up our
pirate ship, we will quickly outclass them!
Here's one of those secrets that's only a secret to
men who don't get laid very often...
Women notice and appreciate a man with a sense of
style.
We're talking about the overall presentation of the
experience of you: clothing, jewelry and grooming.
Just as with possessing a trim, healthy body, you gain
serious “social value points” when you present
yourself with more pizzazz. An ordinary-looking guy
in his forties or even sixties with obvious style can
still turn women's heads.
You’re putting on a fucking show here, act like it!
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I'm not even talking about going super-overboard.
While dressing like a metrosexual GQ model would
be a fantastic (and almost necessary) strategy in many
European capitals, it's overkill for most other cities in
the world.
Just take a little extra time to polish up the outside
of your ship so that it positively gleams with
perceived value. Despite all their lip service about not
caring about the outside of you, women genuinely
appreciate it when you take the time to look nice for
them.
If you made just one paradigm shift in how you
present yourself to the world, it could be summed up
in this phrase...
Fish eat worms.
Now you may personally prefer eating broccoli or
lamb or Macadamia nuts. But when you go fishing,
you don't put any of these fine foodstuffs on your
hook, do you?
Fish don't eat that shit.
They eat other shit.
Such as worms.
And what do chicks like?
Style.
It doesn’t matter what you like, it matters what she
likes.
So when you get dressed to go out, rather than ask
yourself what easy, loose-fitting, semi-clean crap you
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can throw on, instead ask what the woman you will
be seducing would prefer to see you wearing.
If you live a little more like an artist, then you'll
naturally dress a little more like an artist.
And, for the love of Zeus, if you're older than 35 or
so you ought to be dressing Age Inappropriate. The
absolute last thing you want to do is dress like the
other defunct men in your age range. Instead, dress
like the guys who are the same age as the women
you're hunting.
If you're in your sixties and you wanna play with
women in their forties, pay attention to what men in
their forties are wearing these days—which, I hasten
to add, is completely different from what’s already in
your closet.
I'm in my late thirties and in principle I'm open to
the idea of seducing a woman of any age. But as a
practical matter, very few women past their midthirties have the energy or vitality to keep up with
me, and so my lovers tend to range from 25 – 35.
(That said, of all my lovers in London, the most
accomplished in bed is a smoky Croatian pushing 50!)
I naturally attract women in their late twenties and
very early thirties because I dress and carry my body
more like the guys their age than the ones my age.
And for all you guys who are stuck in your head
about your age, here’s a secret the women asked me
to make sure to share with you...
Women older than twenty one or so don’t give a fuck
about your age.
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I almost never get asked my age, and certainly
never up front. Sometimes, after we're already
fucking, a woman might ask how old I am with all the
casualness she’d ask me if I had any brothers or
sisters. When she does ask, regardless of her age, I tell
her straight up I'm 38—or however old I am at that
moment. (I was born November 12, 1974--in case any
ladies are reading this a thousand years in the future
and wondering if I’m still available...and, who knows,
maybe I will be!)
Now I don't particularly pursue 18 or 19 year olds,
but now again they drop magically out of the sky and
land nakedly in my bed. I never hesitate to tell them
my real age if they ask...which, again, they almost
never do until after we've already fucked.
On the topic of age, however, there is one
exception worth mentioning...
If you attempt to seduce a woman older than you,
she will quite commonly ask how old you are right
up front. Here's all you need to know...
Older women aren't asking your age to find out how
old you are...they also don't give a fuck how old you
are...instead they're asking to discover if you think they are
too old for you.
In other words, their query is entirely intended to
find out if they have a chance with you. Whenever a
woman in her forties or older asks how old you are,
instead of answering directly, smile and say
something like, “Awwwww, you like me!”
Because that's exactly what it means.
It means she likes you.
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And why
awesome?!
wouldn’t
she--you
are
fucking
Now in truth, you may well be closer to her age
than she realizes, but because of the youthful way you
carry your body and present it to the world, you give
every appearance of being younger than you really
are—and that's definitely a First World Problem
worth having, my man.
You don't have to make any of this into a full-time
job. Start by putting a dollop of your attention on how
you decorate your ship when you go out to hunt, and
then make incremental improvements in your style as
you go along.
Or don't.
Everything I'm offering you—everything--is up to
you.
You're the boss of you. Connect with your body,
don't connect with it, fuck more women, don't fuck
them...really you're gonna do what you wanna do
anyway, and I'm gonna love you either way.
So, respect.
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28: Awakening Your Captain
Some
years ago, never mind how long precisely, I
made the acquaintance of an adorable, curly haired
girl with a PhD in ESL—English as a Second
Language. (It had never occurred to me you could
seriously get a doctoral degree in that kind of
thing...but you can, and she did!)
Now all this happened back when I still believed
the only way to seduce a woman into bed was to go
on x number of dates with her over x number of days
while gradually escalating the intimacy until we
reached some random mystical moment when there
was nothing left to do but “it”.
So, having gotten two or three talky, here's-theentire-history-of-my-life-until-now dates out of the
way with the curly-haired Ph.D., one evening we
ended up back at her charming bungalow, sipping
vodka on the rocks while playing slap & tickle and
getting a little kissy.
I anxiously prayed that it was “on”, that maybe
daddy was gonna get hisself some tonight! And for a
time it looked very much like my novel strategy of
simply “hoping I got lucky” would actually pan out.
Then disaster struck.
Apropos of nothing, my lady friend asked me a
question that would ultimately change my life. But
more to the point, it would first change the course of
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that fateful evening.
“What's your dream?” was her simple, direct and
thoroughly unexpected question.
I mean, who the hell interrupts kissing to ask that
kind of thing?
(As I later found out, women do, that's who!)
As soon as she put the question out there, I froze.
She'd caught me at an unguarded moment--which, I
came
to
understand,
was
precisely
her
intention...because she wanted to know the truth.
She wanted to know my truth.
There was just one problem, I didn't know my
truth in those days.
Sitting there, trying to formulate a response, two
thoughts emerged in the leisurely Game Clock of my
inner world.
The first thought was the realization that I didn't
have a Dream at that point in my life.
My previous several years had been spent acting
in the theatre and writing plays and living the
decadent bohemian life of a starving artist. Much fun
was had, a great number of cigarettes smoked, and a
fair amount of art made, but I'd grown weary of being
broke all the time and had a glimmer of a desire to
find a new career path, preferably one that involved
earning money that wasn't a stage prop for a change.
The second thought was that I wasn't going to get
laid that night.
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From a woman's vantage point, a man without a
dream has significantly lower social value than a man
who knows what he's supposed to be doing with his
life.
We’ve already explored how it is the purpose of
the masculine to dream and aspire to greatness. The
distinction I’d like to offer you now is that manifests
itself in the form of an Epic Quest--an all-consuming
dream to achieve a specific goal.
The Epic Quest is our personal mission to the
moon, our Manhattan Project and our sub 4-minute
mile all rolled into one.
Except not rolled into one.
Actually, more like one after the other.
In fact, exactly like one after the other.
Fuck that other thing I said.
During the era when I was courting the curlyhaired girl, my ship wasn't sailing towards any
specific port of call and so I had no dream. From her
point of view, there was no point to me.
Sometimes you do need to have a point to have a
point.
All of this took several minutes to work out in the
drippy, trippy, Dali-esque Game Clock realm within
me, while outside of me, in the Real-World Gaming
Environment, only the blink of an eye had passed and
then I answered something. I hemmed, hawed and
stammered out some kind of response, but my
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ladyfriend saw right through my faltering words.
I'd been exposed as a man with no plan of what to
do next in my life. And there's no recovering from
that.
Predictably enough, the evening came to an
untimely and awkward end. I never did bed that
lovely, curly haired creature—not that night or any
other.
By the time I'd gone off and actually figured out
what my next Epic Quest would be and returned to
her doorstep ready to share it, another guy (whose
dream it was to become a champion salsa
dancer...you cannot make this shit up!) had already
moved in.
Sic transit gloria mundi, eh?!
In the interim, though, I'd figured a few things out.
Originally, I labored under the common--and yet
absolutely wrong--impression that my Epic Quest was
some huge, monolithic Life Path that I was supposed
to have figured out as a boy and then never swerved
from again for the rest of my days.
Except I just wasn't one of those kids who asked
for a ventriloquist doll for his fifth birthday and was a
semi-professional ventriloquist by the time I was in
middle school and then grew up to sport the “World's
Greatest Ventriloquist” label while appearing nightly
at a top Vegas casino and reading Ventriloquist
Monthly (you know them fuckers gotta have a
magazine!) in my spare time and thinking about
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nothing, day and night, except for sticking my hand
up some doll's ass and making it talk while
pretending it's not me making it talk.
That simply wasn't me.
Nor was I Shaun White, snowboarding at four,
Mozart, composing symphonies at six, nor was I even
Steven Spielberg, who’d already written and directed
his first feature film (a sci-fi adventure of over two
hours in length) by the time he was sixteen.
Like most people, I had lots of different interests,
not just one all-consuming passion. And that's okay,
too.
A very, very few of us are meant to do the exact
same thing for their entire lives, and they like it that
way.
If Bill Gates or Michael Dell, billionaires both, had
any yearning to do something other than play the
game called computer software and hardware, they'd
already be doing it.
But they're not.
And if you were like them, you’d already be doing
that one thing.
The rest of us—the most of us--prefer to mix it up
and do lots of things.
Instead of only carrying whiskey from one port to
the next for our entire careers, we're the kinds of
pirates who will gladly sell our entire supply of
whiskey at the first port, then use that money to buy
rifles, and run those to the next port and trade them
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for rum, and so on.
To shamelessly rip off Stanislavky's classic quip
about acting: “There are no small dreams, only small
dreamers.”
Here’s a secret that all them motherfuckers who
make a handsome living writing books and shit about
how to find your One True Dream (TM) don’t want
you to know...
You do not need to figure out the overall story arc
of your entire life from here till the day you die...all
that matters is your current Epic Quest.
A few years ago I lived with a porn star.
(By the way, I wasn’t being cute earlier when I
mentioned adoring sluts! I absolutely love sluts and
prefer them for lovers whenever possible...although
hard-core Christians come a close second!)
And my porn star girlfriend and I were totally into
one another. At that time, I was feverishly creating a
huge information product that I intended to sell
online through a five video sales-funnel, with all the
attendant autoresponders and shopping carts you'd
expect from such an endeavor--it was a huge
endeavor, an Epic Quest that consumed nearly a year
of my life of long days and longer nights--and one
morning I awoke to find a note from my live-in porn
star girlfriend and it said tersely...
“I think you love your project more than you love
me.”
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And I thought about it for a moment and I came to
the conclusion...
She was right.
I DID love my big Internet project more than I
loved her.
Then I thought...
Wait--one day this project will end!
But then I realized...
There’ll be another project right after that one, and
another beyond that. There's no end to the number of
Epic Quests the Masculine can embark upon.
So in short order I packed up my shit and moved
out of the porn star’s house.
But I got to keep our dog.
Another true story.
Big Self Help is forever urging us to decide on our
One True Dream(TM)—as if we were allowed just the
one, and if we pick wrong then all our efforts are in
vain.
But, of course, that never quite works out the way
they tell us it will. Instead, we run around 1000 hours
into this pursuit and 500 in some other and 2000 in
the next, but we never actually get anywhere--we
never become a professional flutist or certified hot air
balloon pilot or whatnot. Oh, wait, let’s go join
Doctors Without Borders!
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You get the idea.
Here’s something that isn’t a fucking secret to
anybody except the Big Self Help gurus...
There is NO One True Dream (TM).
Instead, there are a series of Epic Quests—each of
which is a milestone in our life representing the
focusing of our efforts in order to achieve some
laudable goal.
If you consider Steve Jobs' life, it seems like he was
always doing the same thing. But he wasn't always
doing the same thing.
In fact, he was always doing something different.
Each of these products involved its own unique Epic
Quest...
Apple, Inc
Apple II
Father
Macintosh
NEXT
Pixar
Apple, Inc.--the Sequel
iPod
iTunes
Father--the sequel
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iPhone
iPad
The day you ship, your current Epic Quest
ends...and it’s time to discover your next destination.
During the more than two long, dark years I spent
rewiring my appreciation of the Human Experience
from the ground up, that ultimately led to my
discovery of how to go from smoking five
motherfucking packs of cigarettes per day to zero
overnight, quitting smoking was my all-consuming
Epic Quest.
I had to slay many dragons and defeat many boss
monsters within me to complete that Epic Quest.
But I finally did. And you know what I did the
next day?
I started a new Epic Quest.
Because that's what the Masculine does.
Again, yes, there do seem to be a few people in the
world who grow up wanting only to play chess or the
piano or with their little willies for their whole
lives...just as there are plenty of people who are born
in some little shithole in the middle of nowhere and
they seem content to live and die in that town without
ever exploring the rest of the world—or even
venturing to the next county over.
But that's not me and it's not definitely not you--or
you wouldn’t still be here. Instead, we're on a more
interesting, convoluted journey that takes us from one
port to the next with each new Epic Quest.
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And that’s the game our Captain plays.
Helping to select your next Epic Quest is his game.
Assembling the Questing Party to achieve your goal is
his game. If sleepy parts need to be strengthened in
order to achieve an Epic Quest, the Captain takes
charge of that. If new parts have to be created to
perform specialized jobs along the way, he figures
that shit out.
Your Captain’s like motherfucking Jake & Elwood
Blues--getting the band together to go on a mission
from God.
If you do not currently have an Epic Quest, if you
don't have a plan for where you’re headed next, this
might be a good time to stop and figure that shit out.
Put this next secret on heavy rotation in your
iPod...
Creating and pursuing an Epic Quest is HOW you
wake up your Captain and it's how you KEEP him
awake...and it’s the ONLY fucking way to do either one.
Look, “average” dudes don't have dreams. They
go to a job and they go home and eat some krap and
take their 2.5 dumps a day and they watch TV. They
get laid once in a blue moon by women who are
themselves average and their timid, monotonous
love-making lasts an average of six minutes.
Great men don't do average.
They are goal-oriented and unswerving in their
passion to reach the next port of call.
Great men never stand still.
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They're always on an Epic Quest—the more
outlandish, the better.
One of the richest and most powerful men in my
briefly adopted hometown of Las Vegas is Steve
Wynn. He has some legendary accomplishments
under his belt, including having his name splashed all
over the finest hotel-casino in town.
But dude's not lounging around by the pool,
counting his money or his blessings. I guarantee you
Mr. Wynn's always got something new up his sleeve.
He's working furiously on an Epic Quest right now.
Maybe it's to build the world's largest Ferris wheel or
to construct an underwater casino or rename Macao
as Wynn Island or somesuch.
Once more...
Your Epic Quest can be about anything...but it cannot
be about nothing.
At certain junctures of your life, your current
mission might be focused on job or career. If your
dream is to make a living at sales, then landing a
good sales job is a worthy goal. If your Epic Quest is
to become a doctor, then getting into (and, ultimately,
out of) medical school will occupy you full time for a
good many years.
But once you've established yourself in sales or
hung up your shingle as an MD, then it's time to
discover the next leg of your journey and begin
moving in that direction.
Your next Epic Quest might be to become a father
or climb Mt. Everest or perfecting the world's first
brain transplant—all are worthy undertakings for
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your inner Questing Party.
The picking of an Epic Quest, the living it, the
accomplishing it, is what wakes up and invigorates the
Reluctant Hero within you.
Great men have a Captain who's in charge. And
the game your Captain plays is deciding upon your
next Epic Quest and then leading the troops into
battle.
Which, by great coincidence (if you believe in that
sorta thing!) just so happens to be our next
destination!
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29: Leading Your Crew Into Battle
Men
do shit. Sometimes it's some mega-awesome,
insanely great shit...and at others it's more of a head
nod to ourselves, “Yeah, I did that!” kinda shit.
Either way, we did it and we should be proud.
While your Epic Quest is the primary destination
you're currently sailing toward in your great pirate
ship, each of your crewmembers also have their own
Mini-Quests--smaller, discrete games they enjoy
playing.
Seducing a woman into your bed is an example of
a Mini-Quest. It’s an inner high five and get back to
business kind of thing--nothing to build an entire life
around.
On the other hand, awakening your Captain and
leveling up your Lover again and again until he
becomes the living embodiment of a Casanova--with
the potential to seduce any available-ish woman he
encounters--is an example of an Epic Quest.
Now whether the enterprise in front of you is big
or little, at a certain point your Captain has to stop
planning your adventures and actually send your
troops into battle.
I say “battle”, but I mean it in the most playful
possible way.
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Being a man is the awesomest fucking thing ever
invented. We get to get to seduce beautiful women
and build impressive monuments and conquer
sprawling empires. But to accomplish any of these
endeavors, there’s a precise moment when we must
needs make a transition from the Thinkingness of our
Game Reality to the Doingness of Actual Reality.
And this transition from our inner Multiverse into
the outer Universe is the place where many fine men
stumble and fall on their way to success.
Sometimes one of our crewmembers will balk in
the face of the Sensory Overload that comes during
this period of transition. And so it becomes even more
important to have a Captain who’s wide awake and
on the job, because he’s ideally situated to encourage
our ego states to keep going in the face of difficulty.
We already know that whereas women can
tolerate shitloads of sensations in their bodies because
of their capacity for Infinite Desire, the instant that
men feel too much charge, we’ll do just about fucking
anything we can to get rid of it—even if it means
turning around and running in the opposite direction
from our current goal.
Imagine the biggest, baddest, strongest sum-bitch
ever built. Maybe he's in Special Forces or a Hell's
Angel or a professional cage fighter.
Now take him to a bar and have him pick out a
woman he wants to meet. For convenience, let's go
with that big titty blonde in the short red skirt slit
halfway up her thighs sitting just across the crowded
room.
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Next let's wind our guy up with a passion to
approach this sultry vixen, and launch him from his
bar stool like a fighter jet roaring off the deck of an
aircraft carrier. And now let's follow him in
sloooooooooooooooooooooooow motion, plugging
into his Game Clock as certain tactile experiences
arise in his body.
Likely as not, before our champion has even taken
the first step in the direction of the big titty blonde, his
body has already become flooded with sensations—
butterflies in his stomach, a lump in his throat, a
tightening in his chest.
He takes another step or two, and now his knees
are feeling weak. Worse still, he's becoming
increasingly conscious of all these tactile experiences
going on within him and he's wondering if other
people can tell how damn nervous he is just by
looking at him.
Either way, our hero does not like this flood of
uncomfortable feelings in his body. Not one bit.
He forces himself to take another step. His target
still hasn't even looked in his direction yet, and he's
already at his limit of being able to tolerate the charge
coursing through him.
He's now officially in Sensory Overload.
His eyes are burning and he feels short of breath.
A moment ago his goal was to meet the hot blonde,
but he’s suddenly envisioning a new and different
goal that supersedes the old one because it's more
visceral and physical to him...
His new goal is to get OUT of Sensory Overload,
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to make the overwhelming sensations cascading
through his body disappear, and the sooner the
better.
From that moment forward, our champion no
longer cares about the blonde, he no longer cares
about getting laid tonight, he only cares about making
the charge in his body go the fuck away. And the
easiest, fastest, best-est—indeed, only-est--way to do
that is to pull the plug, to wave off the landing, abort
the mission, run away in defeat.
In a word: Eject.
Out of sheer momentum, he takes one last step
toward the blonde as her head finally turns in his
direction.
From her perspective, as she notices his ruggedly
handsome jaw and sexy biceps, a smile is already
starting to form on her face when his path suddenly
veers off at a steep angle and he passes her by with
the grim look of a Dead Man Walking and she feels a
pang in her stomach as she realizes he's just as much
of a pussy as every other guy who doesn't have the
balls to walk up and talk to her.
She glances frustratedly around the room,
wondering if tonight is the night an actual man might
show up and seduce her the way she so desperately
yearns for.
Meanwhile back in our putative champion, the
downward spiral of negative sensations lasted only a
few seconds in real time before he reached a state of
complete Overwhelm and made the choice that men
so commonly make in that situation: Ejecting.
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Of course, our hero is thoroughly unaware that his
actions were based entirely on escaping from Sensory
Overload. If you asked him to tell us what happened,
why he didn't talk to the big titty blonde after he
seemed so excited about meeting her, he would have
a story, for sure.
Because we always have a story.
Predictably enough, his story would involve some
combination of disqualifying himself or disqualifying
her such that one or both fails the Narcissus Test.
“I'm not good enough for her.”
“I don't deserve her.
“I'm too old (ugly, uneducated, whatevz) for her.”
“She's too pretty (young, classy) for me.”
“She's probably stuck up.”
“She looks frigid, etc.”
Lest we forget, out in Actual Reality our imaginary
hero is verily a bad-ass. He has every bit as much
social value as the blonde he was approaching, and he
could've easily seduced her if he hadn't ejected when
he became overwhelmed by the charge he felt in his
body.
Meanwhile in the Game Reality of his mind,
various crewmembers and stowaways are now giving
him all kinds of grief--calling him a pussy and a loser
and offering their unsolicited opinions that he might
never get laid again for the rest of his life.
And none of them are aware that the real reason
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our hero didn't approach the big titty blonde has
nothing to do with confidence, deservability, selfesteem or any similar clumps of lead that Big Self
Help is so adept at alchemizing into gold in their
pockets.
Nope, nope, nope.
The real reason is because our boy couldn’t
tolerate the physical distress—the flood of heightened
sensations zinging through his body. So he chose the
fastest way he could think of to make them go away.
He Ejected.
And by “hero”, I also mean me.
And by “me”, I also mean you.
Buckle your seatbelt, my friend, because I'm about
to lay the biggest, baddest secret of them all on you
right now...
Most of the best times you could've ever experienced in
your life never actually took place because you got caught
up in Sensory Overload and you EJECTED before they
happened.
Lots of men say they want a threesome, but when
they finally stumble upon one they often can't even
get it up.
Later they explain it away by saying, “Oh, I guess
that isn't what I really wanted. Maybe I'm just a onewoman kind of guy after all.”
And maybe they are. They'd be the first...but there
always has to be a first at everything, right?!
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Or...
Maybe what happened on the night of the ill-fated
menage-a-trois was that the visceral excitement of
suddenly having four breasts and two of everything
else to play with simply overwhelmed his system and
he couldn't handle feeling that powerful, electric
charge AND work up an erection at the same time.
Hell, every other guy on the planet thinks he can
what male porn stars do. They believe that porno
dudes get paid to fuck chicks in the ass and bust a nut
on their face.
But that's not what male porn stars get paid to do
at all.
They get paid for developing the unique ability to
step into a room crowded with people, surrounded
by photographic gear and hot lights, and take a
camera-friendly position next to a naked, brain-dead,
silicon-tittied woman they're not in the least bit
attracted to—and manage all the heightened tactile
sensations from everything going on AND get AND
maintain a motherfucking erection through the entire
experience AND cum on cue when the director counts
down from “5”.
In short, male porn stars get paid for NOT going
into Sensory Overload when the director says,
“Action!” And, just in case you wondered, they’re
performing well outside the Viagra Zone!
Getting the job done—whether the “job” is as
straightforward as popping a boner on a busy film set
or as sensational as quarterbacking a team to a Super
Bowl victory—without getting overwhelmed by the
massive amounts of stimulation coursing through
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your body is the fucking game.
Here’s the second-saddest secret I’ll share with
you during our entire journey together...
Your average man would rather feel no charge in his
body and not get what he wants, than sit in the eye of the
storm of overwhelming sensation for long enough to
achieve what he truly desires.
The implications of this are profound.
The reason most men don't fulfill their destiny
isn't because they aren't smart enough, determined
enough, confident enough or anything enough.
No, the reason that most men's lives don't turn out
the way they hoped and planned is because, at the
moment of taking action, they felt a bunch of
sensations in their body which they identified as
unpleasant and undesirable and so they were driven
to do whatever it took to make these physical feelings
go away.
And so they Ejected.
My big worry here is that you'll think this is some
kind of theoretical construct.
Fuck theoretical constructs.
We’re talking about a real charge in your real body
influencing your real decisions here.
You ever go to buy something...and maybe it was
the right product you needed at the best possible
price, but when it was time to make the buying
decision you told the saleswright, “Ahhhh, I need to
think about it”?
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Well, you and I know that no man in history ever
went off and actually “thought about it” after Ejecting
from a situation in which he was about to buy
something. In fact, their most immediate goal is to
“forget all about it” because that's the most expedient
means of banishing the flood of unwanted tactile
feelings from their body.
The reason we don't pull the trigger in these
situations is because we’re overwhelmed by the
stimuli of the moment.
On the other side, you have a man like Warren
Buffet. During his acquisition of Heinz Foods, there
would have been a certain point where he would've
had to pick up a pen and sign a contract to make a
commitment worth TWENTY-EIGHT BILLION
DOLLARS.
Can you even begin to imagine the charge that Mr.
Buffet must've felt in his body at that instant of
signing the paperwork?
But you know what he did?
He did something that separates him from lesser
men.
He did something that truly makes the difference
between being a broke-ass bitch and a billionaire.
What he did was NOT allow himself to become
overwhelmed by the tactile experiences rushing
through his body. He felt them, but didn't try to fix
them or correct them or make them go away.
Instead, he signed the contract.
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Keep this mind next time you’re “afraid” to
approach a woman...
Great men sign...average men Eject.
Here's a secret that invariably gets left off the How
To Be A Man flyer we're all given at puberty. No,
check that, here's three secrets, back to back to back...
Men often choose the path of least resistance.
The path of least resistance is always the path of least
sensation.
Following the path of least sensation has been keeping
you from your Greatness.
Now what do you say we fix it?!
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This one, too
(You seemed like you needed a breather!)
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30: Following The Path of Greater Sensation
While
your Captain was away, your crewmembers
picked up some bad habits...
They didn't finish what they started. They only
played their games as long as it felt good—and when
the going got rough, they got going.
Seemingly every time one of your crewmembers
was on the verge of greatness...
They Ejected.
Remember that model-hot French chick you
fucked in the ass? Or that mind-bending online
information product you shipped?
How 'bout that screenplay you sold for seven
figures?
Oh, wait, you don't remember any of that, do you?
Because none of that shit happened.
Oh, there was a spectacular French babe, but not
one of your parts even spoke to her.
And you did have a great idea for an online
product, but your crew stayed up late for weeks on
end talking about it—Quick Tip: never talk about the shit
you’re gonna do, just fucking do it!--and nothing came of
it.
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If it's any consolation, though, you did write half
of that screenplay.
Half.
Here’s a secret every bartender in Hollywood
knows...
Any moron can finish the first half of a script--it's the
last half that counts.
Every time a side of you was on the verge of
taking a bold step in the direction of your greatness,
they reached their Sensation Threshold and then did a
bad thing.
A very bad thing. The worst possible thing.
They changed course when the ship was already
going in the best of all possible directions.
If they'd just kept going in the same direction they
might've completed a lovely Mini-Quest and leveled
up...or else been that much closer to arriving at the
port of the current Epic Quest.
Instead, they chose the Path of Least Sensation.
They Ejected.
You've heard the phrase, a chain is only as strong
as its weakest link?
Well...that.
If you actually happen to be a genuine bad-ass—a
cage fighter, Hell's Angel or Special Forces soldier, as
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in our example above—then you know very well that
at least one member of your crew is a tough
motherfucker. He's the guy to send into battle when
you're enduring the pain of throwing heavy weights
around the gym or about to rumble with a rival gang
or going into actual battle.
These parts of you have developed Sensation
Thresholds that put mere mortals to shame.
But that's just a single part--and its strengths have
nothing to do with the strengths of any other
members of your crew.
Now if we really were the mono-bots the Standard
Dogma needs us to be for their pay-per-stitch
Franken-model of the human experience to work,
then of course the baddest of all dudes would also
have the least fears when confronting other
potentially scary situations—like speaking in public
or approaching a stone-cold German hottie with
shimmering blonde hair cascading halfway down her
tanned back.
But they don't.
Our parts don’t get to share their stats.
If one of your crewmembers puts in its 10,000
hours—or a good resemblance thereof—then an
attendant aspect of their Mastery is the ability to sit in
the fire and withstand tremendous amounts of
pressure and stress—which is to say, lots of sensation
in the body—while still playing their game at a very
high level.
Vanessa-Mae, the Hong Kong-born, Londonraised violin virtuoso, doesn't just play the violin
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much better than you, but she can also handle the
jillion kilowatt onslaught of charge in her body that
comes from playing it in front of a critical, expectant,
paying audience much better than you.
Any member of your inner questing party can
expand its capacity to feel sensation by going past the
point where it feels comfortable and easy. It's the
principle of Supercompensation...and it's how we
grow any muscle.
Whenever a part starts to notice uncomfortable
sensations in the body, it will often want to stop
playing its game in order to make the charge go away
as soon as possible.
Your Captain's job is to keep them on their job.
To help that side hang on just a little longer--write
one more page, make one more presentation to an
angel investor, stay with a seduction through another
Stroke.
Sure, notice your body's going to be in distress, at
first. But just because the ocean gets a little choppy
doesn't mean a crewmember should turn the ship in
the direction of calmer seas.
When the seas grow rough, you don't change your
destination, you sail through the turbulence.
Our parts spend a great deal of time and energy
trying to avoid ever feeling overwhelmed by too
much sensation in the body.
Which is to say, avoiding feeling altogether.
Know this: the more sensation—whether “good”
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or “bad”--a part can learn to sustain, the more
powerfully and confidently it will be able to navigate
the oceans of possibility inside and outside of us.
Everybody knows about “No Pain, No Gain”
when it comes to working out at the gym. I've just
come along to remind you that the same principle
applies to the rest of you. Your crewmembers grow
by being pushed to the limits of their endurance...and
then pushed a little more.
Upon which they supercompensate and become
stronger. And then you push them again.
Your Lover probably has a tendency to Eject in the
face of the first whiff of a “No”.
Hey, nobody likes hearing “No”. It's natural to
turn and run.
But what if you didn't?
What if your Captain stood tall and proud with
you, supporting you while you stood in the breach
and talked to some sexy mama like you owned the
damn joint despite feeling super uncomfortable in
every quivering cell of your body?!
Overcoming your fears doesn't mean not feeling
afraid.
It means realizing that taking a certain action will
take you to the edge (or beyond) of your Sensation
Threshold—but doing it anyway.
Here’s another secret to success that every great
man already knows...
Never Eject unless it's a genuine emergency.
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Except that isn’t really the secret yet. THIS is the
actual secret that separates average men from men of
greatness...
There are no genuine emergencies.
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CONGRATULATIONS—YOU HAVE
COMPLETED LEVEL II!
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The Game of Waking Up
“Guess who just leveled up, young man? You just leveled
up!”
“Check me all leveling up and shiz!”
“Now we have an entire world to play in—with game
environments on the outside and inside, and all the pieces
in place to play any game we desire.”
“Well, I desire to play the game called having more
women in my life.”
“And what’ll you do with more women in your life?”
“You know, have sex and stuff.”
“No! There's no 'and stuff' when it comes to your
desires! Remember when we talked about how the
Masculine always needs to have a plan?”
“Mmmmmm, sounds kinda familiar.”
“Le sigh. Before you get more women, you need to know
what you intend to do with more women.”
“Naughty things.”
“More specific.”
“Very naughty things.”
“That’s all you got?”
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“I've been in a bit of a slump lately. Anything will be
better than nothing.”
“No, no it's not. That's one of the biggest mistakes men
make. Anything is not better than nothing. Ready-fire-aim
is no way to go through life. Taking action is not better
than not taking action unless it's moving you closer to
your true desires. Sailing your ship hither and yon does not
offer you more value than just dropping anchor and staying
in one place until you and your Captain can settle upon a
specific destination.”
“And by 'ship' you mean my 'whole life', I'm
guessing?”
“No, I just meant ship...but I like yours better, let’s go
with that! So when it comes to women, your Captain needs
to know precisely what games you want to play with them
so he can rig the ship and the rest of the crew for your
success, does that make sense?”
“It does, yes. But...can't I just fuck a few chicks—hell,
one would be a nice start—while I'm figuring out my
desires?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely do that—but please don't call
women 'chicks'!”
“What...seriously?!”
“Of course not seriously! They're chicks, why the fuck
wouldn't we call them that?!”
“Whew! I'm beginning to see why you didn't want any
chicks reading this.”
“Right! All I'm suggesting is that while you're
enjoying the experience of having more abundance with
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women you might also start thinking about what games
you truly desire playing with them. Do you want to have a
primary lover and a few other lovers on the side--the way I
usually do it? Do you want to fuck a different woman every
night--and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that if
you do...follow your desires, not what anybody else tries to
fucking sell you. Or maybe you want to be monotonous
with the same woman?”
“You mean monogamous?”
“No, I meant monotonous...and we're staying with
mine. Or how about anal--do you like that?”
“Hold on...are you asking me?”
“I'm asking you to think about it.”
“Oh, right. Wait...giving or receiving?”
“That's exactly what I'm inviting you to think about. If
you've never had a finger up your ass, why not? Whatever
you’re most afraid to try, put that at the top of your
Activities To Try List. Bondage, cosplay, swingers, fisting,
threesomes with another woman, threesomes with another
man, squirting, orgies...there are entire books—entire
libraries of books even—about the limitless variety of
naughty games people can play together. Go off on your
own and spend time researching the possibilities. Dig deep
into your desires and figure out what appeals to you, then
start inviting the women you seduce to play those games
with you. Again, because the Feminine wants you to have a
plan.”
“Just because I have a plan doesn't mean she'll want to
follow it.”
“That's for fucking sure. If a woman doesn't want you
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to fuck her in the ass, she'll let you know. But she still
wants you to ask. Women admire the hell out of a man who
knows what he wants and has the balls to ask for it. And,
besides—I don't think I've told you this yet—I've got a
surprise for you later.”
“I love surprises! What is it?”
“Well it wouldn't be fucking surprise if I told you, now
would it?!”
“Oh, I guess not.”
“But I'm gonna tell you anyway. Because it's really
more of a present than a surprise anyway.”
“Sweet!”
“Later on--at the very, very end of the book, actually—
I'm going to teach you the Secret to Asking For (And
Getting) Anything You Want.”
“Does it work?”
“It works better than it doesn't work.”
“I actually understand that.”
“It doesn't lead to an automatic, 'Yes'--nothing does.
But it does lead to a helluva lot more 'Yeses' than
otherwise.”
“Sounds dope.”
“It is dope. It's doper than dope.”
“That's pretty dope.”
“As dope as it gets. Man, I'm gonna miss you when all
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this is over.”
“Yup, same.”
“Where were we?”
“Something about desire.”
“Right, right...instead of taking a long, and possibly
terrifying, look within themselves, most men flitter across
the surface of their desires.”
“Flitter? That's a word?”
“Who cares? Just because the Standard Dogma says
there's only one approved way of thinking and the
dictionary tells us we can only used certain agreed-upon
words doesn't make it so. What's the #1 message I've been
banging you over the head with since the very beginning?”
“That...I'm the boss of me?”
“OhmyGod, yes—exactly that! I love it! You are the
boss of you. Which means you get to make the rules of you,
and break the rules of you. It's easy—okay, not easy, but
you know what I mean—to color outside the lines in the
Real-World Gaming Environment. To paint an upsidedown painting or legally change your name to Malcolm X
John Lennon. It's hard—but only hard because we never
think to try—to get a little crazier in the Game Reality
within you. Hard for your Captain to do crazy things like
sign up for Epic Quests that nobody ever thought of before
and which require a combination of crewmembers and
talents never seen before in the history of humanity.”
“I want that. That is what I want. But I still don't
know how to get there. I believe you that I have a Captain. I
believe you that he's been asleep. I've felt it for a long time.
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A very long time. I knew a big part of me was asleep, I just
didn't know which part, or how important it was. But I
still don't get how to wake up my Captain.”
“I've already told you.”
“You have?”
“And you're already doing it.”
“I am?”
“Tell me, how do you wake up any part of you that's
fallen asleep?”
“Oh, I know this one! Call on me--call on me!”
“Yessssssss?”
“You start playing the game that only that crewmember
knows how to play.”
“Fantastic! You're such a quick study!”
“That's why I keep leveling up!”
“And it's why you're gonna keep leveling up—long
after the game you and I are playing has ended.”
“Whoa—this is a game, too?”
“Everything is a game. Our journey together is a subset
of Everything. So, yes, this book is also a game. Now can
you guess what game we're playing?”
“The game of learning how to seduce women, of
course.”
“No.”
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“No?”
“No.”
“How can it be no?”
“Go deeper.”
“Okay, gimme a sec. It's...a game of discovering that
the real game is inside us.”
“Better. You're getting warmer.”
“It's...it's got something to do with my Captain?”
“Yes. Warmer still.”
“Hold on. I have a thought. But it's crazy.”
“Is it crazy enough to be true?”
“Maybe.”
“Try me.”
“Figuring out the playing field, putting the right pieces
into play, deciding which Epic Quest to go on next--and
everything else we've been talking about IS the game my
Captain plays.”
“Hot, hot, hot! You're there...you're right there!”
“Soooooooooooo, that's what we're really doing. This
whole journey is really just a game you've created. A game
designed to wake up my Captain if I just keep playing to
the end.”
“And then?”
“And then it's my responsibility to keep my Captain
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awake—to go on one Epic Quest after another that
challenges him so much that he never wants to go back to
sleep again.”
“Wow, that’s exactly, exactly, exactly it. Again, I love
you.”
“I love me, too.”
“I think my work here is done.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. Your Captain is just now waking up—
and he's really excited to start training your crewmembers
in the true art of seduction so you can all get some pussy.”
“Either we all eat steak or nobody eats steak.”
“A-fucking-men.”
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NICE WORK—YOU HAVE REACHED
LEVEL III!
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LEVEL III
A NEW MODEL of SEDUCTION
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30: All The World's A Game
Holy
Smackeral, you've just earned another 10,000
points for reaching Level III—bringing your running
total to a heady 17,000 points!
Now stop your gloating (frankly, it's unseemly)
and let's get back to work.
Until this point we've been exploring the cool-ass
Inner Role-Playing Game we've all got going on
within us—populated by its merry band of semidysfunctional characters each playing their own
separate games and led by a swashbuckling Captain
who grows increasingly awake and alive the more we
pursue each new Epic Quest...and meanwhile the
whole gang's backed up by a mess of loud-mouthed
stowaways who like nothing better than to bust our
balls for putting on our pants the wrong leg at a time.
Now let's direct our attention outside of ourselves.
Which is comprised of—wait for it!--still more games
to play.
There's such a crush of games going on at any
given moment that figuring out which ones to play
and which ones not to play has become one of our
most stressful, synapse-tiring endeavors.
Which job to take, city to live in, person to date,
faith to believe in, bad habit to give up next?
So many games, so little time.
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What's a girl to do?!
Every human activity that involves activity is a
game. Hell, even sitting there and doing nothing
whatsoever can be turned into a game.
A game called Meditation.
There's a surprising number of flavors of sitting
around doing nothing, including Vipassana, Zen,
Kundalini and Transcendental Meditation--each with
their own rules, objectives, week-long seminars and,
no doubt, cigar-smoking gurus running around in
saffron-colored togas shagging their followers and
loudly denouncing their rivals in the meditation
community.
Now meditation might not be your cuppa, but it's
no less legitimate a pursuit than any other game that
humans play.
Still...
Can you begin to imagine the internal negotiation
that goes down when someone decides to take up
meditation?!
The entire crew are gathered together on the deck
of the great ship and here's this earnest new avatar
clad in all-white yoga attire and waving around a
stick of Nag Champa incense, earnestly explaining
how the game of meditation is played.
And the other parts are asking, “Wait, we're
supposed to just sit around and do nothing for twenty
minutes?”
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“Well, that's just at the start. When we get better at
playing the game of Meditation we'll be doing it for
up to sixty minutes at a time.”
“It's possible to get better at doing nothing?”
“Yes, it is—exciting, huh?”
“Not the word we'd use, but...whatever.”
And, true enough, just like with any other game,
we can get better at playing the game of sitting
around doing nothing. People actually speak with
great pride about how many years they've been
meditating, and how much their practice has “grown”
and “deepened”. And it actually has--because they
got better at playing that game.
10,000 hours is 10,000 hours, no matter what game you
choose to spend them on.
Instead of meditation, the game could've been
snowboarding or safecracking or alchemy, a la
Newton.
Games provide the gravity that holds the human
experience together...no less than gravity is the game
that holds the universe together.
Every moment of our waking hours is taken up
with playing games. And not just our waking hours-there are actually folks who play a game called Lucid
Dreaming while they sleep which allows them to
continue playing games around the clock.
Becoming a parent is a game. In my estimation, it's
the greatest game of them all. No creative or personal
achievement in my entire life will ever be more
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important to me than fathering my 2.5 children. (Long
story!)
Of course, parenting is a time-consuming game to
play, especially during the early years. (If you think
golf is a slow game, trying raising a child—each
round lasts 18 years!)
But being time-consuming is not a detriment for
any game. Quite the opposite. Humans live
practically forever these days and we've got a lot of
time to kill...and so we welcome just about any game
that will get us through the night or day.
The most time-consuming game humans usually
play is our occupation. Although we certainly need
the paycheck in order to survive, the primary reason
people play the game called Work is not for the
money.
Corporations have known for decades that
employees are not particularly motivated by money,
but they got so buried under the steaming pile of
techno-jargon (intrinsic and extrinsic motivators,
anybody?!) dumped on them by the Keepers of the
Standard Dogma that they lost sight of the simple
truth in front of them.
You want to know the secret of why people really
show up at their jobs every day—even though they
may seemingly dislike every aspect of whatever their
job entails? I mean, if it's not for the money—and it's
not for the money—then why the fuck else would
people get all dressed up and drag themselves into
work?
Here’s The Man’s best-kept secret...
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Most people dutifully report to their job each day
because they don't know what the fuck else to do with their
time.
That’s not a very romantic reason, is it? But the
Truth sometimes isn’t.
In most people, their Captain’s fast asleep and
they have no current Epic Quest into which to
channel their considerable energies...and so the part
of them that once upon a time learned to do a specific
job wearily takes the wheel for another shift of
lawyering or accountancy or insurance claim
processing because how else are they supposed to
spend their day?
Showing up at the office gives them a 40 or more
hour per week respite from one of the most
confounding problems facing humanity: “What the
hell are we supposed to do with ourselves all day
long now that we no longer have to hunt and/or
gather in order to survive?!”
People work because it's a non-stop game that
somebody else made up--and here’s a fucking secret
that can change your life if you ever decide to jump
all over it...
It's always easier to play somebody else's game than to
create a whole new game of your own.
Once we start playing the game called Work, it
requires far less effort to keep playing it than to stop
and have to figure out some other job-like game to
play.
As funnyman John Cleese puts it, “It's easier to do
the little things we know we can do than start in on
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big things we're not so sure about.”
The more urgent we make the trivial tasks in our lives,
the less urgency we are left with to accomplish anything of
importance.
The fact that most of us don't like the game called
our job is irrelevant. Good people will stick with a job
or relationship or bad habit long past the point of
enjoying it because it's a game they already know
how to play and they're getting better at playing it all
the time.
The miserableness of working that job, staying in a
relationship with that woman or smoking that next
cigarette is outweighed by the even more miserable
thought that if we did abruptly stop playing one of
those games we wouldn't know what other game to
play in its place.
And it’s sapping the energy right out of us. No
fucking wonder our Captain and many of our
crewmembers keep falling asleep whenever possible.
Here's a blood-curdling secret that’ll help you
better appreciate why we do the things they do and
why we don't do the things we don't do...
Faced with playing a game that totally sucks versus
having no game at all to play, people will do everything
possible to hang on to the sucky game.
How the fuck else do you think that demonstrably
evil outfits like Monsanto or Big Tobacco still have so
many thousands of employees who dutifully—if not
necessarily cheerfully—show up for work at their
manicured, befountained, Prisoner-esque places of
business?!
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We have such an insatiable hunger for the
Structure that these organized diversions bring to our
day that we willingly play the game called a Job for
our entire lives even though it means largely giving
up our own dreams and quests.
When we get hired on at Cogswell Cogs we
willingly stop being players in our own game and
give over control of our actions to someone else. We
effectively become what's known in the computer
gaming world as Non-Playing Characters or NPCs—
restricted to a narrow list of duties known as a “job
description” rather than just being able to run around
saying and doing anything we please.
Apple employees love the challenges of their job
and willingly sign up to play on teams creating the
latest insanely great new products, but virtually no
Apple veteran--former or current--would ever use the
word “fun” to describe the experience of working
there.
Apple-bots are expected to check their identities at
the door and toil days, night and weekends without
any complaints or any additional perks like the foot
rubs and little juice boxes those bastards over at
Google get.
Hell, if you're ever thinking about creating your
own start-up business someday, here's a counterintuitive secret that will help you build a hyperproductive team...
The more you ask of other people, the more they’ll sign
up for it because that means the less they have to ask of
themselves.
People will tirelessly help you pursue your Epic
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Quest rather than go through the considerable bother
of planning and executing out an Epic Quest of their
own.
One of the reasons that troubled, clueless young
people (as if there were any other kind!) are drawn to
the Armed Forces is because it's all structure, all the
time. The military is a game that takes over their
whole life. They won't have to worry about make the
wrong decision—or any decision at all--for the next
three or four years.
Shut up, stop fidgeting, do what you're told, shoot that
guy over there...the military is just Kindergarten with
guns.
And just because a game isn't fun doesn't mean we
won't keep playing it. Three-quarters of employees in
America admit to anything from mild dislike to active
loathing of their occupation. But three-quarters of the
workforce doesn't quit their job each year. They show
up day after tedious day.
Joseph Campbell liked to say, “The secure way is
really the insecure way.”
Indeed.
The very thought of giving up the daily safety net
of structure that playing the game called work gives
their life is, quite frankly, terrifying.
Like Prisoner of Second Avenue terrifying.
And that's yet another reason why you should be
as gentle as possible with the people you encounter
on your journeys.
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Almost everybody is struggling.
They wish they were playing a different game—
but don't know which other game to play or how to
start playing it. They're having a hard time, while
doing their utmost not to show it.
Here's a secret that's both sad and true...
Most people's lives are a simmering kettle of miserable
that never quite comes to a boil.
So be nice.
Please.
To everybody.
Most especially yourself.
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31: Getting In The Game
Look, I know there are parts of you that think I’m a
complete fucking idiot.
What they don’t know is I got my motherfucking
eye on them in turn. Even now, as your Lover smacks
his lips and rubs his hands gleefully together in
anticipation of learning the all-new model of
seduction we’ll explore throughout Level III, there are
other sides of you who are not happy that I’ve been
putting all these licentious thoughts into your Lover’s
head to begin with.
At the end of the day, it’s not “people” who find it
easier to keep doing what they’re already doing, it’s
the crewmembers who make them up. (Ha--I like that
unintended turn of phrase–“the crewmembers who
make them up”...as if we wouldn’t even be here if our
crew didn’t constantly keep pretending us into
existence.)
Pardon my Existentialism.
Just because one part of you is bringing a
newfound enthusiasm to the study and practice of
seducing women doesn’t automatically guarantee
him Telescope Time in the great Observatory of your
Life. The other astronomers in the observatory are
some jealous little bitches--as only astronomers can
be--and your Lover might not get much buy in from
them in the beginning.
Or ever...if you let them have their way.
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Remember, whatever game they are currently
playing is just as important to them as the game your
Lover wants to play. And the other parts of you can
so entirely monopolize the available inner resources
that no one else can get a word in edgewise--much
less get a turn at training the telescope on some
distant star clusterfuck or whatever passes for shit to
look at in outer space these days.
So it would be a very good use of our time indeed
to spend the rest of his short chapter by going behind
the scenes to discover how even a single part of you
can get so good at playing its game--no matter how
stupid that game may seem to the rest of the class-that forward progress in other areas can grind to a
complete fucking halt.
Bottom line, there’s no point in learning any of this
if we can’t also get your Lover some much-needed
Telescope Time.
Which naturally leads us directly to the neonelectric world of big-time gambling. And more
specifically, the slots.
Twenty or so years ago slot machines were the
Lepers of the gaming world. No self-respecting
gambler would go near the one-armed bandits—
which accounted for a mere pittance of total casino
revenues.
Fast forward a couple of decades...those old-timey,
Rube Goldbergian contraptions with actual handles to
pull have been replaced by a high-tech altar to
graphics, electronics and computational horse-power
that looks like a joint venture between the Jet
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Propulsion
Laboratory
Imagineering.
and
Walt
Disney
Along with its fraternal twin of video poker, the
modern-day slot machine has turned the casino
business upside down. Gambling revenue has
unexpectedly
flippity-flopped,
with
Machine
Gambling now accounting for upwards of 90% of all
proceeds.
This is a big deal because the part of us that plays
machine games is a completely different part than the
one that plays table games.
The ego state who learns to plays live-action table
games is often a larger-than-life version of
ourselves—just that much more courageous, dashing
and outgoing than we normally give ourselves
permission to be. What's more, the table gaming side
of us is rewarded with higher social status by casinos
and onlookers alike because of its daring exploits at
the green felt tables--along with all the attendant
limos, palatial suites and top-of-the-line hookers that
come with the territory.
And then there's the quiet, humble crewmember
that plays machines.
On the surface, slots and video machines are even
more flashy and sparkly than table games—and its
their Blade Runner-y sensory appeal that entice
gamblers to sit down in the first place and give these
devices a whirl.
But, as with everything, there's an outside and an
inside. Beneath the surface of actually PLAYING
these glittery machines is an isolated, lonely world
that's been variously described by its denizens as...
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Being in a trance
A way to erase yourself
Hanging in suspended animation
On autopilot
Nowhere
When people play machine games, they are dead to the
world...even dead to themselves, really.
Now table games are Finite Games. Each turn of
the dice, spin of the ball or flip of the cards is a
separate game, with winners and losers and all the
attendant celebration or despondency. Players will
regularly march up to the roulette wheel or craps
table to make a single outlandish bet of many
hundreds or thousands of dollars, lose it within a few
seconds, and then hustle off to tilt at another
windmill on the other side of the casino.
Meanwhile, machine games are Infinite Games.
Machine players regularly report that they’re not
playing to win. They play solely to keep playing...to
stay in the Machine Void.
And stay they do, for hour after numbing hour.
While the corporations that run casinos are
delighted by the rise and rise of the machine, the
officials who regulate them are growing somewhat
alarmed by the “mindlessness” of this flavor of
gaming.
Which, of course, entirely misses the point of how
and why people play the games we do.
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Every one of our crewmembers seeks to get better
at the game they play. Our smoking part wants to
improve its ability to play the game called Smoking
no less than the part of us that plays Slots wants to get
better.
And get better it does.
You can put in your 10,000 hours on becoming a
ballerina or you can put in the hours on getting better
at pushing buttons on a machine.
An outside observer would complain that
gamblers aren't getting better at playing these games.
The outside observer would be wrong.
Players ARE getting better at playing machines
games. They're getting better at playing them out in
the Real-World Gaming Environment--where players
have been known to increase their ability to play
video poker, from 300 hands per hour up to 600
hands and even, in the case of Mastery, 900 hands.
Per hour.
Which, by any measure, is a staggering feat of
mental and manual dexterity.
Machine gamblers are just as legitimately in
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi much ballyhooed state of
Flow as more “productive” members of society who
playing culturally approved games like chess or
painting an Italian fresco.
But here's our big takeaway we’ve been playing
for...
Our crewmembers don’t just improve their ability to
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play a game on the outside of us, but also on the inside.
For a crewmember to play any game it first has to
get control of our ship's wheel—which can be no
mean feat, since the steering wheel is quite commonly
already overbooked.
And then to keep playing its game this side of us
has to keep hanging onto the wheel—meaning it has
to learn how to negotiate for more time with the other
parts.
Here's our big takeaway, somewhat restated...
Learning to master the game on the inside is as
important to a part's ultimate success than anything that
happens on the outside.
Getting better at kickstarting a new business is a
combination of discrete actions you take in the
Universe AND the ability of your Entrepreneurial
side to successfully negotiate with the other parts of
you to get the resources it needs to create the next
Instagram or some shit.
Until and unless your Lover can figure out how to
get a whole bunch of turns at the helm--despite the
opposition of other parts of you--then he’s not going
to get better at playing his game.
It all boils down to playing time, my man.
And the way you get playing time is you keep
scooting one player up the bench until you’re sitting
right next to your Captain and you say, “Put me in
the game!”
Then you keep on saying, “Put me in the game!”
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over and over again until your Captain finally relents
and puts you in the motherfucking game.
And then...play hard.
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32: Playing The Relationship Game
Even the most rapturously pro-kink, pan-sexual, slutshameless Sex Bloggers of the world STILL cannot go
through an entire day without dropping the “R”
word. So this one’s for them...however, they’re
probably not gonna like my contrarian take on
Relationships. Well, unless they also conceive of them
as something we do primarily because we’re bored.
Think about it...
While the workplace dominates our lives, in truth
even a full-time, forty-hour-per-week gig still leaves
us with 128 unstructured hours each week for to fill
with still more games.
Even if we allow ourselves a generous eight hours
per night to play the game called Sleeping—which
nobody actually does, but whatever—there remains
72 unaccounted for hours.
So maybe we take up golf. Okay, that's four
additional hours down, just 68 left.
What other games can we play?
Hmmmmm, a man's gotta eat...so let's say an hour
per day of combined preparing, chewing and
swallowing our cud for another, hell, that's only
seven total hours per week, still leaving us with 61.
Oh, oh, oh, I forgot about brushing our teeth!
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One minute per session times twice per day and
there's another 14 minutes we don't have to think
about.
Shit!
You know what? We need something here.
Something big. Big as in an ongoing, larger-than-life
experience to keep us occupied when we're not busy
playing the game called being at work. My man...
We're gonna need a bigger boat!
Hold on, hold on, I've got an idea.
I've got THE idea!
What's a game we can play that has the potential
to utilize every free minute between leaving the office
at the end of the day and showing up again the next
morning? A truly Infinite Game that only requires
one other person—and it can be anybody, it literally
doesn’t matter--to play it with?
How about a little game called...
Being In A Relationship?!
How perfect is that?!
In one fell swoop we've solved our Sisyphean
drive for structure in our life...for, well, the rest of our
life.
A relationship is like a vacuum cleaner that sucks
up all those annoying extra hours left over while
we're not busy playing the game called work.
Suddenly we no longer have any time left over to
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worry about doing anything else...meaning we no
longer have to do anything else...meaning our worries
are over, my friend!
Our motherfucking worries are over!
Wow, you'd think just about everybody would
want to get into a relationship!
Oh, wait. Never mind.
Here's a secret you'll never read about in any of
those grimly cheerful books on relationship advice
with their clever titles spelled out in wispy cursive
and a velvety red heart instead of a dot over the “i”
often written by a married couple where the role of
the woman is played by the man and you can just
imagine the number of nights he's sat numbly on the
edge of their marital bed apologizing for not being
able to get hard yet again as she lightly strokes his
arm and reassures him that it's no big deal while she
furtively counts the hours til Mandingo comes over
the next afternoon to fuck every hole in her body
exactly the way she needs to get fucked or she's
gonna go postal here and k-k-kill...sorry where were
we oh yeah another shhhhhh-don’t-tell-anybody-buteverybody-already-knows secret...
All the love songs and romantic comedies
notwithstanding, the goal of playing the game called
Relationship is not to find your best match in the entire
world--it's to find any match whatsoever who's willing to
play the Relationship game with you.
Which is why pretty much nobody under the age
of 65 is strictly monogamous anymore.
The proper definition of monogamy is having only
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one partner during your whole lifetime—which is how
our grandparents used to play the game.
These days we (and by tend to be serial
monogamists. When things don't work out with our
current partner, we often prefer to find someone new
to play the game with rather than throwing ourselves
onto the fiery funeral pyre of our dearly departed
loved one.
The Relationship game as it's currently played in
the real world is Identity-Independent. If things don't
work out with Eduardo, a woman will gladly play the
exact same game with Cedric or Bartholomew or
whoever else shows up. The identity of the person she
plays Relationship with is little more than a random
element introduced to make game all the more
unpredictable and engaging.
Here's a secret that absolutely NOBODY will ever
admit to...
We enjoy playing the game of Relationship on its own
merits—who we play it with is incidental.
Hey, don't shoot the messenger here.
I didn't invent this game.
This is what people do.
This is what you do.
This is what some English chick I seduced a few
weeks ago did.
First, she told me I was the Most Amazing Man
Ever Invented! Then I explained that I didn't want to
play Relationship with her--my preferred game being
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Lovers, meaning she would share me with other
women, just as I would share her with other men—
upon which she tearfully, yet swiftly, broke things off
with me.
A week later I introduced her to a friend of mine,
an extraordinary man in his own right. The English
chick soon pronounced HIM to be the Most Amazing
Man Ever Invented. Until he, in turn, explained that
although he did have a desire to play Relationship, he
was in the middle of an Epic Quest and simply
couldn't spare the time at the moment to do so...and
again she summarily and tearfully and swiftly broke
it off.
But her tears weren't for him, just as they hadn't
been for me.
Her tears were for her.
She was crying because she really, really wanted
to play the Relationship game and we weren't letting
her play and that made her sad, angry and upset. Her
desire to play the game itself was much larger than
her desire to be with either one of us as individuals—
otherwise she would've been with us in whatever
way we were available for her.
And a girl should get what she wants--no
argument from me there.
Relationship is a fun game to play if you've got the
time to play it. I've played it several times before and
I may well play it again. It's super easy to start
playing.
Like all good things in life, it starts by doing what
so many of us can forget to do for years at a time:
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leaving the house. Let's say you go to a birthday
party...
You’re not even there ten minutes before you meet
a plain but likable woman. That same night you have
plain but likable sex with her. You're not doing
anything the next night so you see her again. And
then once more the following Friday night, because,
you know, it's Friday night.
By Saturday it dawns on you that all the grief and
embarrassment and overpowering sensations that
come from being rejected and (even worse) ignored
by women you are trying to meet might be behind
you.
Is it possible that you’ve miraculously stumbled
upon the Holy Grail sought by every exemplar of the
male species: a regular and limitless source of pussy?!
You're so relieved about no longer having to face
the slings and arrows of negativity from other ladies
out there that your emotions swell within your body.
Being a man, and therefore scarcely able to tolerate
much sensation in your body, you seek to dissipate
that excess emotion by expressing it to your new
ladyfriend. You say something like: “I think I could
fall in love with you.”
She doesn't answer you...yet.
She just smiles knowingly.
At this point, you've known her for one week.
What follows are the four most exciting years of
your life.
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You're never bored. How could you be? You now
have three times as many troubles as you did before.
Seriously, you have three times the troubles to
distract you.
You've still got all of your old problems, they
surely haven't gone anywhere. And now you also
have her problems. And then you have YOUR
problems—the combined problems the two of you
have by virtue of being a couple.
Like the problem of deciding whether you move
into her place or she moves into yours or you get a
new place together.
Problems, problems everywhere...and nary a moment to
think.
Meanwhile you're not following your dreams.
You're not going on any Epic Quests. Hell, many of
your crewmembers aren't even getting to pursue their
Mini-Quests. How could they? Between all those
crushing deadlines at work, and going to her sister’s
wedding, and visiting her family twice a year in
Houston—really, they couldn't live in some
more...civilized place?!--you don't have a moment
free.
Gone is playing poker with your buddies and
fishing through the weekend. You have sex less and
less, so you sneak into the bathroom to spank it to
Donkey Show porn more and more.
Sure, the pilot light of your desire to undertake an
Epic Quest still flickers in your rare quiet moments,
but you don't have time to turn up the heat just now.
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Once things “settle down” you'll write the Great
American Novel.
Of course things never settle down...that's not what
things do.
Until one day you come home and she's moved all
her shit out. Like, she’s just fucking gone.
You are justifiably outraged.
How could she do this to you? You're pissed off,
and well you should be.
Not because you particularly miss her—oh, sure,
you grew fond of her as a person, yet let's be honest
here, another Best Available Option is just a mouse
click away—but because according to the rules you're
not even allowed to play the Relationship game again
for a long while.
If you don't spend the requisite year or so grieving
over—uhhhhh, whatever her name was—then it
would be way too obvious to others and to you that
playing the Relationship game itself was the source of
your enjoyment, while who you played it with was,
shall we say, negotiable.
There's even a strict-ish formula to follow about
how soon you can start playing the Relationship
game again: the longer you were “in”, the longer you
gotta stay “out” to prove to everybody (i.e., again,
including you) how “meaningful” it all was.
Meanwhile, if we enjoy playing the game called
Tennis, we're allowed to play it as often or seldom as
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we like with any of our tennis-playing friends. Or, if
they're not available, we can play with their
roommate. Or their mom. Or anybody at a skill level
comparable enough to our own such that we'd both
enjoy the experience.
Yet we're not supposed to want to play the
Relationship game in the same way that a person likes
to play the game of tennis or travel.
Relationships are “supposed” to be different.
They're supposed to be about the other person, not
about the experience. Mind you, that's now how most
of us actually play the game, it's just how we pretend
to play the game.
Again, according to all the songings and poesy
and romanticals, we're not supposed to play
Relationship at all unless we also make a big show of
pretending that the person we're playing it with is our
One True Soulmate (TM).
Lest you think that finding your One True
Soulmate
(TM)
sounds
like
a
daunting,
insurmountable barrier to entry in order to play this
popular game, it just so happens that our next One
True Soulmate (TM) lives directly across the street
from us.
We know this to be true because it's always been
true.
Since the dawn of civilization, our romantic
relationships have largely been determined by
propinquity--a fifteen-dollar word signifying the
happy, happy accident that of all the kabillions of
people in all the kamillions of cities on all the
kajillions of planets in the universe, the odds that the
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person you're destined...destined, mind you!...to spend
the rest of your life with just so happens to live
directly across the street from you are pretty much
100%!
Well, if not directly across the street, then no
further than around the corner.
Statistically, virtually everybody settles down to
play Happy Families with someone who lives less
than 2.1 miles away.
This is as true today as it was in the Middle Ages
and earlier.
How cool and totally not a bizarre, inexplicable,
unfathomable, and nonbelievable coincidence that
every human on planet Earth fortuitously happens to
be born and raised almost exactly right next to the
person that the stars up above and the love songs on
the radio and all the astrologers laid end-to-end
always predicted they would meet and get to spend
the rest of their days with—their One True Soulmate
(TM)?!
(Which sounds so much more romantic in official
Orwellian Double-Speak rather than its true moniker
of Best Available Option, right?!)
So you serve out your mandatory sentence of
Grieving for your long lost love (with time off for bad
behavior, oh la la!) and eventually you are pardoned
and allowed to play the Relationship game again,
with the stern warning to make sure this time around
you play it with your real One True Soulmate (TM)
and not a false, fake, evil one like last time--wink,
wink!
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Thus do you finally leave the house again. Lo and
behold, at the very first party you attend, there she
is—a human female with an impish laugh and two
breasts and one pussy who's shyly looking for
somebody to play the Relationship game with.
However, this time it is different.
She's just come out of a several year relationship
that ended badly.
Yeah, you know all about that.
And now she's got Trust Issues.
Wow, you've also got some of those.
She seems to like you. But...what she needs right
now is someone who can be understanding, who will
“take it slow.”
And you're like, “Ohmgod, me too!” Adding,
“People are always rushing into things.”
“Right,” she agrees, “what's the hurry?”
Turns out she enjoys hiking, too. And the ocean.
And cooking together.
All the things you like.
Oh, and this one time, she and her friends saw a
platypus. Sheesh, how perfect and how perfectly
lucky that you and her would happen to meet like
this.
“Holy shit”, you're already thinking, “she might
really be my One True Soulmate (TM)!”
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At this point, you've known her for 20 minutes.
Well now you know why I dismissed the ladies at
the very beginning--because I knew this day was
coming! If they were still hanging around their little
Alice would be throwing the biggest fucking hissy fit
East of the Mississippi right about now, ya dig?!
That's 'cause they don’t like hearing that playing
Relationship is no different than playing Politics or
Religion. These are all bewitching diversions, if that's
your bag, but the participants often take the
experience sooooooooooo seriously they forget to
ever have any fun playing 'em.
Despite my unorthodox take on the Relationship
game—i.e., that we play it more because of our love
of the game itself than for the love of the current
incarnation of our One True Soulmate (TM) that we
happen to be playing it with—I'm not remotely
suggesting you shouldn't indulge in playing that
game now and again if that's your desire.
True Love still happens.
It's happened to me.
More than once.
And it'll probably happen again.
But if it also one ends, that doesn't make it NonTrue Love.
I have no problem with people who choose to play
Relationship. In any case, as I keep saying, no game is
any better or worse than any other from the
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perspective of the player. A crewmember that enjoys
playing Serial Killer may be unpopular both inside
and outside a person, but a game is a fucking game.
Many great men get (re-)married...to women they
typically meet AFTER they’ve completed one of more
of the Epic Quests for which they earned their fame
and fortune....and quite often to women so young
they were barely even born during the time of their
man's greatest accomplishments!
I simply want to encourage you, my friend, to be
ever mindful that jumping into such a potentially
intense and intensive game as Relationship can come
at the expense of you playing other games—most
particularly your current Epic Quest.
Because every day we wake up and face the same
daunting choice...
Should we continue to play other people's games?
Or...
Is it finally time for us to make up a game of our own?
Do we create our own TV show...or watch one
somebody else created?
Shall we keep working for the Man...or become the
motherfucking Man?
And there really aren't simple answers to these
questions. Except that it's always going to be much
easier NOT to start that business or NOT write that
book than it is to do so. It will always requires
infinitely less effort to keep playing the game we're
currently playing, whether we like it or not, than to
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become a Mystical Journeyer--travelling into a world
unseen by others and then returning to tell them of it.
Hell, maybe not everybody has an Epic Quest in
them.
Some people's lot in life might truly be to play
supporting Non-Player Character roles in the
absurdly epic dreams and ambitions of Business
Titans, Rebels, Iconoclasts and other great men...and
great women, to be sure.
But how can we know we aren't meant to succeed at
one or more Epic Quests of our own unless we try?
And how can we know what our Captain is even
capable of if we never wake him up?
Meanwhile the game of Relationship isn't going
anywhere, believe me. You can come back to it any time.
Just ship something first, fair enough?!
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33: Your Boarding Party
Games
aren’t just determined by their rules and
players, but also by the spaces in which they’re
played. Even if you've mastered the rules of yachting,
you still need to find your way to a large enough
body of water to play that particular game. The finest
yachtsman in the world stuck in the middle of the
desert is what vultures refer to as “a side of fries”.
Some games are played on boards, some on fields,
and still others in outer space—the latter including
astronomy, astrology, theology and the floaty game of
being an astronaut.
Once in a while a would-be Lothario manages on
his own merits to figure out enough of the rules to
gain some purchase on the true art of seduction...but
then subsequently flounders because he cannot quite
figure out where the game itself is supposed to be
played.
And that’s a critical question: where is the game
called Seduction played?
Obviously, not knowing the answer would cripple
every aspect of our approach and strategy--no less
than bringing our mad water polo skillz to a proper
polo pitch with horses and shit wouldn’t likely result
in us scoring a goal or whatever the fuck they have.
The glossy magazines tell us seduction is played
over an unhurried meal at the type of classy
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restaurants that, quite conveniently, also happen to
advertise in their pages.
The pick up gurus insist seduction is played at
bars and nightclubs over drinks, preferably ones that
the “target” paid for.
Dumb-asses believe it's played at strip clubs. (“No
way, dude, that chick totally digs me for who I am,
not 'cause I gave her all my money to hang out with
me!”)
Floundering middle-aged men feverishly hope it's
played
online
at
Match,
OK
Cupid
or
RussianBrides2Go dot com.
And on and on.
In point of fact, seduction is not played anywhere
in the world.
At least anywhere in the world as we know it—
this measurable, phenomenological embrace of matter
we call home.
Instead, it's played exclusively in Game Reality.
More specifically, her Game Reality.
Welcome to the Weird, my friend!
The game of Seduction is played on board a
woman's ship as she sails about the watery bits of the
world.
That is to say...
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The playing field of seduction is INSIDE the woman
you are seducing.
The imminent psychologist Carl Rogers noted,
“The best vantage point for understanding behavior
is from the internal frame of reference of the
individual.”
Now don’t worry your pretty little head just yet
about how you’re going to actually pull off any of the
following in the “real” world.
You already knew this was going to be different
from anything you’ve ever been exposed to before.
And you ought to know by now that I wouldn’t
introduce you to any of this if I didn’t also have a
plan to get you there. So for now, just lean back, relax
and enjoy the ride.
Besides, as Picasso put it, “Everything you can
imagine is real.”
So imagine along with me...
To initiate the game of seduction, you first notice
the pleasing aspect of a woman's ship looming in the
distance and your Captain makes the command
decision to board her. You trim your sails and set the
rudder on a course to intercept her—cheekily
drawing your great ship right up to hers, while in the
meantime summoning your Lover and Little Prince to
the top deck.
Together with the Captain, these three make up
the complete boarding party required to seduce any
woman.
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Notice who is NOT among the boarding party...
to:
Every other part of you! Including, but not limited,
That super-informed side that knows the complete
history of the Knights Templar.
The ego state that follows hockey, cricket, team
handball or any other sport.
Any of your mouthy, grumbly stowaways.
Your Inner Writer who's responsible for those
florid, fiendishly clever, book-length missives to the
ladies on dating sites that result in two-word
responses from below-average chicks whom you
almost never ultimately meet in real life anyway.
Or any of your know-it-all avatars with their
esoteric knowledge about the world that you've
trotted out before in a failed attempt to jump the
shark over a woman and “impress” her into your bed
with your superior data.
Here's a secret that will single-handedly cut your
reading list in half....
A woman won't fuck you because you know a bunch of
esoteric information about the world--she'll only fuck you
for knowing a few simple truths about her.
No amount of data in the world will ever get you
laid unless you actually are Data from Star Trek--and
if you are, Hi, love your work! Your entire boarding
party consists of your Lover, Little Prince and
Captain.
If any other side of you shows up wanting to help,
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thank them politely for their offer and then get rid of
them. Seriously, they can only get in the way.
Similarly, if any parts of the woman you're
seducing, besides the specific ones we'll meet below,
try to commandeer the wheel of her ship, simply pat
them on the head smilingly and send them back to
their cabins with all due dispatch.
Later we'll explore the exact structure of how to
play this beauteous game—when to alternate between
your steamy Lover and the sweet, vulnerable Little
Prince, all under the watchful eye of your dashing
Captain.
And later still, when you reach the Bonus Round
of Fucking that comes at the end of the game, your
Captain's final task will be to release the hungry,
primal Lion within you from its heavily barred cage
so it can get all rough and tumble with some lucky
lady's Tigress.
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34: Her Welcoming Party
Speaking of the lucky lady, let's meet her parts.
Her parts...her parts...her lovely lady parts!
Keep in mind that even though you are boarding a
woman's ship, her crewmembers are not the enemy.
Quite the opposite. They very much want you to
succeed.
That said, she does have a couple of ego states
whose jobs include preventing her from yielding to
your temptations too quickly.
A crucial aspect of seduction is wooing or
otherwise handling each of these characters in turn—
no less than you'd have to work your way through
several layers of defense to reach any worthwhile
treasure in an actual Massively Multiplayer Online
Role-Playing Game.
Let's do a quick meet 'n' greet of her troops, armed
with the foreknowledge that we'll do our primary
Training on specifically how to play with them once
we arrive at the 22 Strokes.
Our three crewmembers will normally be met by
five of hers.
Her Naughty Girl and her charming, deadly Alice
will “face off” against your Lover and your awkward,
nice-to-a-fault Little Prince—and this is where the
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bulk of our seductive energy will be applied.
At the same time, her Captain and your Captain
may go head to head—often with sparks and witty
banter a-flying that rivals the epic sword battle
between Inigo Montoya and the Dread Pirate Roberts
in The Princess Bride--the clever quoting from which is
the ONLY time you’re allowed to trot out any esoteric
knowledge when seducing a lady.
Alas, alack, oh potato sack...opportunities for
urbane, screwball comedy banter between your
Captain and hers are far more common in motion
pictures than out of them. Chances are good that her
Captain will still be asleep—the way yours probably
was before you set out on this journey in earnest.
A woman can still be seduced if her Captain's not
around. If anything, her Captain's absence makes it
that much easier.
But...
But...
BUT...do I have your attention yet? I want you to a
come to a Dead Stop for this next bit!
If a woman's Captain isn't present, then she will
have less access to her inner moral compass and can
more easily stumble into doing things that might
prove inappropriate for her lifestyle and dreams.
Print this one out and put it on your bedstand...
Just because a woman will fuck you doesn't mean
that's the right or best decision for her in the moment.
It's okay for you to say, “No” if you perceive that
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it’s not in a woman’s best interests to fuck you.
There's an infinite supply of women. If it's not the
right place or time for any one of them, throw her
back. I throw back far more than women than I ever
bed. Not because I don't like them, but because it
would be unecological to play with her in whatever
circumstance I've encountered her.
On the same note, if a woman becomes overintoxicated, you must end the seduction immediately.
You must stop and take care of her--delivering her to
her friends or a place of safety.
If you're not playing this game with absolute integrity
and the self-possession of a gentleman—if your Captain
isn't stepping into the leadership void and conducting
himself with all due nobility when a woman is going
through a tough time—then you're playing the game
wrong.
Listen, I know you don't need me to tell you any of
this.
The kind of man that you'd have to be to have
come this far on our journey together is also the kind
of man who does not need to be schooled about how
to treat others with honor and decency.
Still, it never hurts to be reminded of the
fundamentals, right? After all, that's why they're
called the fundamentals!
On top of that, one or more of her crewmembers
might not be very good at playing their designated
game.
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Not to put too fine a point on it, but they
sometimes suck.
And not through any fault of their own. They suck
at at playing their game for the simple reason that
they haven't spent enough time playing it to become
any good yet.
A woman's Naughty Girl, for example, might
make some over-the-top lascivious remark and then
immediately regret it and make awkward attempts to
take it back.
Don't pounce on a woman if a part of her makes a
basic mistake. Instead remain patient and kind.
Here's a secret that can help you win more friends
and influence more people than any other...
Every part in every human is just trying to get a little
better at the game it plays.
And that includes Alice, who will ALWAYS be
present during a seduction. She may almost seem to
be hiding for long stretches. But she's not hiding. Not
yet. That comes later. For now, she's watching and
watching some more.
Never forget about Alice and never overlook her.
Little Alice may test you by throwing little or big
tantrums. If you react poorly or emotionally or if you
make her feel stupid by trying to “fix” her Upset, she
will press the little red button and you'll have to go
bye-bye thank you for playing please don't bother us
again.
When Alice's test comes—and it will come—the
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only way to “pass” it is by doing nothing.
Stay present and unemotional in the face of her
tantrum. Simply smile and say to her, not out loud
with words, but silently with your eyes: “You are
beautiful. You are safe. And you are loved.”
The same words your Little Prince wants and
needs to hear.
When Alice’s upset comes, often it will be so quick
that if you blinked you'd miss it...and it can go away
just as quickly. Simply smile at her lovingly and she
will back down soonishly.
The key to every seduction is staying utterly
present with the woman you are seducing, giving her
the full force of your attention and intention. Once
Alice realizes you cannot be moved off your center by
her storm, she will take her finger off the little red
button that would instantly abort the seduction.
For now.
But she'll go back to watching you intently and
taking your measure—noticing what you do and how
you do it.
This isn't random. There's a reason Alice is doing
all this. She's asking herself if she can trust you. She's
trying to figure out if you can protect her. She wants
to know that you have the strength to be there for her
later on in case the big scary Tigress comes out to
play.
Because Alice is afraid of the Tigress and doesn't
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want it to eat her.
(Hey, all life is about self-preservation—and our
individual parts are no exception.)
Here's what I want you realize about the little girl
inside of every woman...
Even though she's only a little girl, she knows
about sex.
Not everything about it.
But plenty.
Enough to know it's ugly and messy and she
doesn't like it. She doesn't understand the point and
doesn't want to find out.
She also knows she can prevent it from happening
sometimes. If she throws a big enough tantrum, the
man might get frightened and run away, or else do
something stupid and lose his chance to come in and
play. So she looks for a chance to create an upset
whenever possible.
If making a racket doesn't work, if sex becomes
unavoidable, then she has to go hide. She has to go
far, far away, because she's terrified of being eaten by
the Beast.
So Alice runs and hides.
Sometimes she crawls all the way down one leg
and hides in the narrow space behind the knee...a
tight squeeze where the Tigress cannot reach her with
its mangly teeth and hot, roarish breath.
Alice hides and closes her eyes and her ears and
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her nose. The soured milk smell of sex makes her sick
to her stomach. During the sex act is when she feels
most isolated.
That’s when she most wishes she had a friend to
play with or a stuffed animal to cling to.
Or even a hug.
A hug would make her feel so much better.
When the Tigress roars especially loud, Alice
inches down even further inside the woman’s leg, as
far as she can go. There she stays, rocking and singing
softly to herself...until the ugly thumping ends, until
the Beast is spent and the danger passes.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Alice emerges from her
hiding place and makes the lonely trudge back to
where she usually stays, up near the heart, as she
awaits the first opportunity to take the helm and play
the game she needs to play—the game of Upset.
If possible, she throws a tantrum directed at the
man who caused all this trouble. She wants him to
react badly.
She wants him to get scared or angry so he'll run
away. Far, far away.
Except that's not what she really wants. She
doesn't want him to leave at all. She wants him to stay
and be gentle and sweet and play with her for a
while.
Nobody ever plays with her.
She wants him to take her in his arms and hold her
tight--hugging her so deeply that she feels totally safe.
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And loved.
And pretty.
That's what Alice wants.
I just wanted you to know that underneath her
harsh, bossy-pants exterior she is soft and sweet and
lonely and scared and shy.
So whenever you encounter Alice, you might
consider giving her a loving hug and playing with her
for a while.
There are two final crewmembers waiting for us
when we descend upon a woman's ship in her Game
Reality during a seduction.
One them you may be expecting, the other you
may not. In both cases, the less you have to do with
them, the better.
Each member of a woman’s welcoming party has
the ability to abort a seduction at any moment, no
questions asked. Other parts of her may object to
playing sexy time in general or to you in particular,
but they don't have the ability to unilaterally pull the
plug. At best they could try to find an ally from
within the ranks of a woman's welcoming party and
whisper in their ear like Claudius dripping poison in
the ear of Hamlet's father, the soon-to-be-late King—
but any one of the Big Five can push the little red
button such that a Dr. Evil-esque trap door snaps
open up directly underneath you and you’re...gone.
You don’t have to make friends with every member of
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her welcoming party, but you must also not make any
enemies.
The next crewmember we'll meet is her
Bodyguard, whose job description is exactly what you
would think it to be, guarding her body.
In the (quite likely) event that a woman's Captain
is still asleep, her Bodyguard serves as the last line of
defense and customarily takes its game very, very
seriously—positively relishing any opportunity to be
a Grade A Cockblocker.
The Keepers of the Standard Dogma, with their
slavish, Renfield-esque devotion to the mechanization
of mankind, refer to a woman's Bodyguard by the
militaristic jargon-speak of Center of Vigilance—as if
it were the command & control center buried deep
within an aircraft carrier, lined with banks of glowy
radar screens and missile defense systems connected
by miles of wiring and cooled with liquid nitrogen.
Look, I greatly adore this high-tech-apalooza
world of ours, but it usually does not truthfully nor
usefully nor beautifully explain how the human
endeavor unfolds within us.
Our inner Game Reality is decidedly low tech...
A timeless sailing ship rather than a state-of-theart nuclear-powered aircraft carrier.
A flesh and blood Bodyguard with bulging biceps
and pirate tats instead of a computer-controlled, laserguided Center of Vigilance.
And a sword.
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Her Bodyguard also has a sword.
Because why the fuck wouldn't it have a sword?
Of course, if you wanna get all neuroscience-y and
Greekish about it, this ego state is technically called
the Amygdala, but Bodyguard seems ever so much
more poetic and mysterical, so let's go with that!
In any event, her Bodyguard's marching orders are
to err on the side of being overly cautious about
letting her Naughty Girl out to play.
If the Bodyguard says “yes” too often or to the
wrong type of men (i.e., those who fail the Narcissus
Test by light of day), then the woman's Captain is
liable to rouse himself from its uneasy slumbers,
assemble the entire crew on deck and give this
bumbling fool a most public and humiliating dressing
down.
You--not you, your crew, duh!--will never need to
interact directly with her Bodyguard. There's no
action for you to take in relation to this part other
than to be mindful that it's there and then treat every
lady with the respect she's entitled to.
Oh, and for the love of Vishnu don't ever, ever,
ever try to knock out a woman's Bodyguard by plying
it with drink or drugs.
That's what weak men and assholes do.
If you simply follow the 22 Strokes as they're laid
out in the Level IV, when it comes time to advance to
the Bonus Round of Fucking, her Bodyguard will
personally congratulate you with a head nod and a
half-smile that says, “Job well done!”
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Finally, the final member of a woman's Welcoming
Party is the one that may surprise you.
At the very least, discovering how you should
handle this part of her will shake up some of your
core believings about how you're “supposed” to woo
a woman.
Once more, don't shoot the fucking messenger
here--I hate to always be the one bearing bad news,
yet nobody else out there was willing to step up to the
plate and tell you any of this—but you've been
interacting with this crewmember exactly wrong your
entire life.
Exactly wrong.
You've been trying to make friends with this side of a
woman.
But it doesn't want to be your friend.
It's not even friends with the woman you're seducing,
so why the fuck would it want to become friends with you?!
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35: How (Not) To Compliment A Woman
Just because a woman looks like a triathlete (or even
IS a triathlete) doesn't automatically mean she loves
her body. Anybody can punish and starve their body
into looking “good” without enjoying a healthy or
loving relationship with it.
A woman's Puppy Body is the final, and
undoubtedly the most sensitive, member of a
woman's Welcoming Party.
Many women are not exactly in love with their
Puppy Body—the inner avatar that reflects how they
feel about the outside of themselves—and more still
cannot begin to fathom why so many men are.
We may see a woman as a sleek, aerodynamic
greyhound, whereas in her Game Reality her Puppy
Body resembles a pug—a flat-faced, bulging-eyed
mess of loose folds of skin.
We men want to cling to our Actual Reality
because we “know” it to be true...
The woman sitting across from us is a mega-babe
and we want to bring that truth into Mutual
Knowledge by making sure that she knows that we
know that.
And yet we always forget one little detail...
When realities collide, Game Reality always
triumphs Actual Reality.
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Always.
Always.
Always.
Actual Reality: zero...Game Reality: infinity
A woman's Multiverse, in which she may have a
distorted, irrational, unflattering image of herself,
invariably
triumphs
over
any
logical,
phenomenological, tape-measurable evidence we can
assemble about how, say, her cute button nose is the
perfect incarnation of a Fibonacci Sequence.
Oh, just in case you wondered...
The unavoidable supremacy of a woman's inner Game
Reality is is precisely why we play the game of seduction
on her home turf in the first place.
You will never in your life know how any
individual woman in your life experiences her own
Puppy Body--which, again, may not necessarily look
like a “puppy”, but which definitely also does not
look like the “her” that you see through your eyes.
A woman will never tell you how she envisions
her Puppy Body, nor would mere words begin to do
justice to their complex relationship even if she tried.
The most important truth for you to remember is
that a woman’s relationship with her Puppy Body is
never reflected on the outside.
Some of the most gorgeous, pristine women you'll
ever encounter view their Puppy Body as a growling,
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mangey junkyard dog that deserves all the kicks and
abuse it gets.
Other women, who could only charitably be called
plain, have a Puppy Body that appears to themas an
adorable, beloved furball they enjoy cuddling with at
every opportunity.
One of the most significant improvements we can make
in our ability to seduce women is changing the way we
interact with a woman's Puppy Body.
The way we've been taught to do it is to praise a
woman's looks early and often. Like just about every
other fucking thing people are hell-bent on teaching
us, that’s the fucking worst advice ever.
I would like to encourage in the strongest possible
terms to stop doing that. In fact, I'm going to
recommend that you don't ever praise a woman's
looks ever again. Like, ever.
At least not any woman you're actively seducing
and have a desire to eventually fuck.
No good can come from complimenting a woman on her
physical appearance...only a great deal of bad.
Praising the outside of a woman is like playing
Russian Roulette without an empty chamber in the
gun.
Because we don't know--
Actually, hold that thought for a sec. Before we go
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any further I need to take you aside and tell you
something...
My man, I fully recognize this shit is cray-cray.
This whole Inner Role-Playing Game Theory of
Mind is so totally fucking weird that it cannot
possibly be true.
Little Prince? Alice? Sleeping Captain? Puppy
Body? The way you seduce a woman is to board her
ship in her Game Reality?
Are you fucking kidding me with all this?!
Everything you and I are talking about is so far
beyond the pale of the conversation that anybody else
on the entire fucking planet is having about the
human endeavor that this shit has got to be false,
wrong and potentially deciduous. Or at least
stratocumulus. Or maybe I'm thinking of scabrous.
Scabrous: indecent, salacious and/or covered with
scabs.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
This is some weird, scabrous shit. And if anything
it's only gonna get weirder. Hell, directly ahead we've
got...
Stroke Zero. The Myth of Self Esteem. Seduction
Singularity. And the grandaddy of them all: Quantum
Entanglement.
Now in my defense, I didn't invent how human
beings are organized--I've simply come along to
explain it to you because none of them other
motherfuckers would.
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My mentor from beyond the grave, Terrence
McKenna, speaks of the Artist as Shaman--a mystical
journeyer who goes into a world unseen by others to
find a Way...if there is a Way to be found...and then
return to tell of it. So if the Way I found is weird, it's
hardly my fault. You simply cannot spelunk to any
meaningful depth into the human experience without
it becoming really, REALLY fucking weird.
If anything, I've taken great pains (great pains, I'll
have you know!) to distill the weirdness down to its
pure essence so we could ingest it one teensy-tiny,
candy-coated, profanity-infused drop at a time.
Still, even if not one word in this entire book turns
out to be True—and the odds border on 100% that not
one word here will turn out to be true, other than
referring to it as “scabrous”, naturally—what if,
coincidentally and entirely by accident, what I'm
sharing with you turns out to be Useful?
What if my Inner Role-Playing Game Theory of
Whatever-the-Fuck, against all laws of physics,
rationality and common decency, somehow actually
works?
Suppose this crazy, scabrous shit actually leads to
more women in your bed and other good outcomes
besides?
What then?!
In that (exceedingly improbable, mind you) event,
then I suppose you'll ultimately need to make a
decision. You'll have to decide to either play game
precisely as I lay it out for you in the 22 Strokes
ahead, or else go play it in some less crazy, less weird
and less scabrous way.
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Because this really isn't a mix-and-match kind of
thing. You cannot seduce a woman using the singular
model that I'm sharing with you half-way or halfheartedly.
It's all the way or not at all.
All at once or never.
I'm just putting this in your mind now--you won't
actually need to choose until we reach the end and it's
time for you to head into the Real-World Gaming
Environment and put all this to the test. But
eventually you gotta pick a team.
There can only be one.
I recognize that I don't have much to offer you
other than my insanely weird Inner RPG Model of
Fucking Everything. Our whole team would be just
me and you. Oh, and the enchanting ladies we get to
play the game of seduction with, fo sho. Oh, also
10,000 brand new Bonus Points, which I'm gonna
immediately credit to your account without so much
as a by your leave--because I am so not above buying
your vote!--bringing your total up to a groovy 27,000
points.
Now if you ultimately choose the other team—
and, despite my blatant attempts just now to ` my
way into your good graces, I super-strongly suggest
that you do choose them—then you'll have the
combined wisdom of every other expert on
relationships, dating, pick up, romance and sexuality
on the planet on your side.
Of course, you and I won't even be playing on this
planet. The game we're playing is within. After all,
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that's why it's the Inner RPG Model. We're journeying
to a whole different reality where the laws of
earthbound physics no longer apply.
Still, let's be honest with one another, you know,
man to man...
In the end you'd have to be out of your fucking
mind to join me in the Game Reality where we're
headed.
Ding-dong!
Who's there?
Some dudes with straightjackets for you and your
imaginary friend!
Okay, be right out!
Hurry, my imaginary friend, let's get back to
work...because we've got a lot of strange shit to cover
before they bust down the door and haul one or both
of us away!
As I was saying before I was so rudely
interrupted...
Because we do not know—and we can never know—
the actual relationship a woman has with her Puppy
Body, our best strategy for interacting with that
member of her crew is: not at all.
The Nash Equilibrium in this situation dictates
that we should act as if the woman's Puppy Body isn't
even a member of the woman's Welcoming Party,
although it most certainly is.
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Every time boy meets girl, her Puppy Body comes
trotting out like Pavlov's dog--eager for the inevitable
compliments that the boy typically starts ladling out
like a hog farmer slopping its pigs.
But that's not how you and I are going to do it.
We're not going to make friends with a woman's
Puppy Body.
We're not going to seek it out and scratch its little
head and single it out for flattering words. Instead,
our entire strategy will be to leave it the fuck alone.
We shall let sleeping—or not-so-sleeping, as the
case may be—dogs lie.
In a phrase...
Never compliment the outside of a woman you are
actively seducing.
Because if you utter sweet words of praise about a
woman's exterior (whether “nice rack, baby” or “great
legs” or even “wow, you're so hot”) and there's not an
exact match between her internal Puppy Body and
your external assessment—and there will never, in the
history of any woman you ever meet, be an exact match
between these two--then your well-intentioned upstroke
will have resulted only in you losing major Trust
Points with her.
Think about it like this...
Are there any dudes out there who simply irk the
shit out of you? Some moronic dildo-head whose very
existence annoys you? Some jackass whom you wish
would have the decency to move to another city or at
least die? You know the kind of ass-wipe I'm talking
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about, right?!
Every guy has another guy or two that he fucking
hates.
Let’s call our vomitous example of one of these
dudes Annoying Joe. Now suppose you meet a pixiehaired, tiny-breasted cutie at a party and she just
moved to your own from “up North”--because “up
North” is a place you move from, not to--and she's
only met one other person and guess who the fuck
that is?
That's right, you guessed it—Joe.
And you go, “Ugh, Annoying Joe? I'm so sorry
you had to meet him.”
But she says, “Oh, I thought Joe was sweet. He's
pretty cute, too. Do you know if he has a girlfriend?”
In one stroke your estimation of this cutie's tastes
and opinions would've gone straight through the
floor. The very fact that she couldn't recognize what
an obvious waste of humanity Annoying Joe is
suddenly makes you doubt her taste in every other
area.
That happened to me once.
I was seducing this tight blonde I met and then I
found out she'd fucked the smarmy, smirkish young
attorney/semi-professional drunkard who was then
playing the role of Annoying Joe in my life--and she
fucked him not once, but twice!--and I was so
thoroughly disgusted by that discovery that I
permanently lost all interest in her.
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Ugh.
And that's exactly how a woman with a broken
relationship with her body feels when you come along and
start gushing praise-iferously about her sexy little Puppy
Body.
Ugh.
It doesn't matter that she actually is pretty...in the
same way it doesn't matter to you or me if our
Annoying Joe actually is an awesome dude. You
cannot stand him and really that's the beginning and
the end of that story.
“You have such beautiful skin!” you might say,
quite truthfully, to a woman you've approached.
On the inside she's thinking you're either an idiot
for not being able to see all the obvious flaws, stretch
marks, blemishes, blotches and veins in her skin, or
else you're lying because you want something from
her.
Either way, she's already starting to not trust you
and you've only just met.
This isn't to suggest that your assessment of a
woman's exterior will always be more flattering than
her own--lots of gals think they're hotter than you or I
would ever give them credit for—but rather that your
separate perceptions will simply never match.
Remarking on the physical appearance of a
woman you are seducing is a lose-lose proposition.
Absolutely no good can come of it—only bucketloads
of bad.
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I want you to write this down in blue Sharpie on
the palm of your hand and stare at it till it burns itself
into you eyeballs...
Never compliment the physical attributes of a woman
you're actively seducing.
It can prove so unsettley and stand-outish for a
man not to compliment a woman he's chatting up that
she may eventually notice and attempt to draw you
out.
“Ugh, I feel so fat,” she will pronounce out of the
blue. “I really pigged out this week.”
A lesser man, a weaker man—in other words, me
until way more recently than I'd care to admit (hint:
last year!)—would take the bait and run with it like a
Grade A Moron, protesting her self-deprecating
remark with great solemnity.
“Oh, no, you're a babe.”
“You're so fine, Princess.”
“You are a paragon of feminine loveliness.”
You know, the shit we say.
And she's thinking, 'Sigh, boys are so boring and
predictable.'
From now on here's how I'd like you to react in the
face of a woman's inevitable complaints about any
aspect of the outside of herself...
Do nothing.
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Say nothing.
Smile. A little.
Just look at her with your little smile for a
moment, then continue on with your seduction.
Like any habit, this can be a hard one to break.
When I first arrived in London nearly six months
ago, I had a Czech lover possessed of such an
astonishingly perfect body that I simply couldn't
restrain myself from gushing about her perfect
breasts, her tight pussy and her lean thighs every time
we got together—despite the fact that I also knew (I
KNEW!) that she also had an ongoing eating disorder
and all the attendant body dysmorphia that goes with
it!
Maybe on some level I thought perhaps that
sharing some of the Truth (ha!) of my high regard for
her physicality would sink in and magically would
help her repair her dysfunctional relationship with
her Puppy Body.
You want to know what all my well-crafted
compliments about her outside got me? A one-way
ticket on the MegaBus to no longer fucking her, that's
what. My appreciation of her (truly spectacular, my
friend, truly spectacular!) body was so at odds with her
disapproval of it that she preferred to not see me at all
rather than have to endure hearing me say godawful
nice things about it.
Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus!
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That's Roman-speak for, “Sooner or later, even the
best of us acts like a fucking idiot!”
I’m well aware that advising you not to
compliment a woman on her physical appearance
goes directly against centuries of “best practices” on
stage and screen where the Hero spends the majority
of his time praising the external beauty of the
Heroine—until she finally falls lovingly in his arms.
Alas, life is not like stage or screen.
Instead, it's like a role-playing game. And the part
of a woman that plays the role of her body is
unmoved by the endlessly sugar-coated compliments
it hears from outsiders.
Oh, and before you get all chuckly and holierthan-thou about how so many women seem to be
neurotic about their looks, you should know that men
occupy an even lower station in this scheme of things.
An even greater percentage of men are completely
and totally disconnected from their bodies. They don't
even have enough of a relationship with their body
for us to call it dysfunctional.
Their Puppy Body is a Gollum-like creature
slinking amongst the muck and filth of the lowest
decks of their ship, haunting and hunted as it fights
with rats, lawyers and other vermin for the meanest
of scraps to stay alive.
In the Western world, the average man in his
fifties these days looks as if he's eight months
pregnant. With triplets.
Or even if he's not overweight, he's allowed his
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muscles and bones to atrophy from neglect and
disuse.
Like any other part of you, your Puppy Body
wants to play—to gambol about, leaping and
frolicking and sniffing other puppy's asses.
Your Puppy Body just wants--and deserves--to be
loved.
If you know any men who've fallen out of love
with their body, send them to me because I can totally
help them. My Low Carb Revolution book is smallishly
about weight-loss and eating well...and biggishly
about my unique model of habit change and how to
fall back in love with your beautiful body.
Let's once more be grateful that the dames have
been banned from these parts, because this would be
their cue to wrap their fingers around our necks and
screech, “TELL ME I'M PRETTY, GODDAMMIT!”
Yo, yo, yo, back way the fuck off, baby!
Here's the dealio...
I'm not suggesting you stop complimenting
women. Upstrokes are the best strokes of all. Please do
offer a woman as many sincere compliments as you
desire. However...
Never praise a woman you are seducing for her
outside—if for no other reason than it's totally
superficial.
Instead, freely compliment a woman for the
positive attributes you perceive within her, such as
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her business savvy, wit, ambition or femininity.
Women (no less than men) sparkle and shine
when their inner qualities are singled out for praise in
front of the rest of the class. A powerful woman
enjoys it when her power is recognized and
appreciated by a powerful man...whether or not you
think her tits are fetching is truly at the bottom of the
list of things she'd like to hear from you.
And whenever you give a woman an upstroke,
always bear in mind that it's not her that your
praising, but rather a specific, individual member of
her crew.
This is why you want to avoid doling out
Universal Compliments such as, “You are such a
generous person.”
She is NOT a generous person...because there is no
“she” in the way the Keepers of the Standard Dogma
would have us believe. There is no global, monolithic
“experiencing organism”, but rather a community of
parts of who take turns playing the different games
she plays.
No sooner do you bust out a Universal
Compliment about her being courageous (or any
other similarly broad concept) than one or more of
her parts who are not at all courageous—who are, if
anything, downright cowards--will feel picked on and
slighted.
Instead, always direct any upstroke to the specific
crewmember that deserves the praise.
To wit...
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“Wow, when you left your husband, not knowing
where you'd live or how you'd support yourself, that
took real courage, didn't it?!”
That, my friend, is the type of heartfelt
compliment that could touch a woman all the way in
her Deep Spot.
Which is a place within her so deep that it only
comes as the very last stop at the very end of our
journey together...but I promise you it's well worth
waiting for.
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36: The Mysterious Case of The Shriveled Up
Spinal Cords
Here's a sobering thought...
Virtually everybody on earth is a stranger to you.
There are more than 7 billion humans alive today
and statistically you don't know any of them. I'll prove
it. Let's do the math. (Noooooooooooooooooooooooot
math!)
First, we've got our immediate Tribe, the 150-200
friends, family and such that we're able to keep in
touch with on a regular basis, at least if Dunbar's
Number is to be believed.
Well that's an infinitesimal number compared to 7
billion, so let's see if we can pad it out a bit. Let's add
in the many folks we may recognize by name or sight
(frustratingly. not always both!)--folks from church or
bingo or church bingo, which pretty much covers the
entire non-work spectrum of the human endeavor,
wouldn't you say?
Even that's an miniscule number—maybe 500
people? Maybe?
Hell, we're still way shy of 1000. Meanwhile on the
other side of the equation there's more than seven
BILLION people whom we don't know and will
probably never meet. I don't have a calculator handy,
but I'm pretty sure that 700 divided into
7,000,000,000,000 is, for all practical purposes, ZERO!
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And there's more fucking people showing up all
the time...within our lifetimes the world population is
expected to nearly double to 13 billion.
So, statistically, just about every human being is a
stranger to us. Which is kinda depressing when you
think about. And which is why most of us never think
about it.
But we sure as fuck feel it.
We feel it constantly. In our central nervous
system. In our spinal cord. In our Deep Spot.
Humans have a deep, built-in craving to connect
with others, to see them and have them see us, to
touch and be touched.
But mostly we don't.
On the sidewalks, the subways, the stores...there's
a flock (pride? school? pod?) of people in every
direction, but we studiously avoid looking at, talking
to or acknowledging one another.
We don't talk to strangers. We rarely talk to
anybody we don't already know. About the only
people we give ourselves permission to open up to
are the NPCs of life.
Recall that in an RPG, Non-Player Characters
(NPCs) are often controlled by the game itself and
typically perform a single, narrow function such as
giving you tips on which direction to take your quest,
selling you magic potions or helping you build up
your stats in some way.
The functional equivalent of NPCs in the Real327
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World Gaming Environment are waitresses, bank
tellers, insurance agents and the like whose roles in
our lives are more defined by the job they're currently
performing than by being an actual 3D human being.
Here's what a crazy world we live in...
Most of us walk around ignoring all the other
“Players” in the Real-World Gaming Environment,
while the only “people” we give ourselves permission
to talk to are real-life NPCs—and then only long
enough to make small talk while tipping the cabbie,
paying the cashier or tucking a fiver in the fluorescent
green t-back thong of a generic, silicon-breasted
stripper.
Which is a pretty fucked up game to be playing.
Again, when you think about it.
So, again, we mostly don't.
No wonder so many people seem to be a little
grumpy, right?!
Despite being surrounded by more people than
have ever been alive at the same time since the dawn
of Humanoidazoidal Experiment some three million
years ago, we mostly keep to ourselves and remain in
a constant state of being hungry for attention and
affection—blocking out the sounds of the world with
our ubiquitous ear-buds connecting to an iSomething
and hidden behind sunglasses to dim our
surroundings down to a sleep-inducing replica of
Plato's Cave.
Here's the first-saddest secret I'll share with you
on our entire journey...
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Humanity is literally starving to death from lack of
connection in the midst of the greatest All-You-Can-Meet
buffet ever invented.
The effect of being so desperately alone despite
swimming in a sea of humanity causes our spinal
cords to shrivel up just a bit--to borrow Eric Berne's
mordant turn of phrase.
We all want to connect with other people, but since
those other people virtually never talk to us or even
look our way unless we happen to be playing the role
of an NPC (“Hit me again, barkeep!”), they seemingly
don't want to connect with us in return.
And, of course, they're thinking they exact same thing
about us.
Here's a secret that sounds so ridiculous that it
cannot possibly be true...
Everybody quietly longs to play with the other Players
in the Real-World Gaming Environment, but nobody
wants to go first...and so nobody goes at all.
Instead we grin and bear it--stuck in a suspended
animation of sensory and social deprivation.
Last month I was riding the Tube and this
adorable-ass 19 year-old tatted up Suicide-Girllooking Irish lass complimented me on my kicks
(some utterly Age Inappropriate bright pink hightop
Chucks) and we started talking and literally we
became Facebook friends by the time we reached the
next stop--during which the entire crowded subway
car stared at us like it was the first time in the 150year history of the London Underground that two
people had actually spoken to one another...because it
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probably was.
What's that about?!
When puppies bounce down the street, they stop
and sniff the butts of every other puppy they
encounter, and then obligingly swivel around to get
their butts sniffed in return.
Which is exactly what your Puppy Body wants to
do—connect with the other Puppy Bodies it's
surrounded by. Hell, it'll even skip the butt sniffing if
you'll just give it a chance to exchange hugs,
handshakes, ideas, something!
But...nope.
We fall into lockstep with the other silent robots
around us. We avert our gaze and keep our mouths
shut.
'Cause that's what everybody else does.
Except that once in a great while when we
don't...when the molecules that make up you and the
molecules that make up another person actually
collide and the two of you interact in some fashion.
And we realize with a start that there's another option
besides pretending that everybody else doesn't exist
all the time. We can actually, finally connect with
another homo fucking sapiens!
O frabjous day! Callooh, callay! we chortle in our joy!
The space between our normal (wouldn't
“abnormal” be more appropriate?!) game of
pretending that the other Players around us don't
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exist...and connecting with somebody we don't yet
know is vast.
Vaster than vast. There's a chasm, a void, a canyon
of the grand variety between each and every human.
If there weren't, we'd already be friends with lots
more of 'em and Dunbar's Number would measure in
the tens of thousands.
On paper it seems like a small step to go from not
knowing somebody to knowing them.
It's not.
It's the biggest step of all.
Again, we're talking about getting to know other
Players, not NPCs. The Non-Player Characters in the
game of life are stuck behind the counter at their job
and have no choice but to stand there and endure our
awkward attempts at communication.
NPCs don't count.
You and I are learning how to seduce actual
women into our actual beds, not how to flirt with the
barista
at
your
local
coffeehouse...however
dreamacious she may be.
Here's a secret that will save you years—seriously,
years—of frustration, energy and misplaced
flirtingness...
You cannot fuck NPCs.
Average men waste sooooooooooo much time
chatting up Non-Player Characters instead of putting
their attention on a female Player whom they might
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actually be able to seduce.
Alright, alright, “waste” is definitely too harsh a
word. There's nothing wrong with flirting. If you
enjoy flirting, keep doing it. However, I want you to
realize the cost-opportunity involved.
Flirting is exactly like kissing.
Both are pleasant ways to pass the time, but
they're also both self-contained, stand-alone activities
that do not lead to fucking.
Neither flirting nor kissing are part of the seduction
process as you and I are going to practice it.
And flirting is all that you can do with an NPC.
A woman who's stuck there tearing your ticket
stub in half at the concert doesn't have the luxury of
being able to let her Naughty Girl out to play while
she's on the job, ergo she cannot be seduced at that
moment. When her shift is done and she goes back to
being a “Player” with an infinite choice of games to
play, THAT is when you can seduce her...but of
course that's when most men make themselves scarce
since they wouldn't know what to say to a woman
outside the safety of her work environment.
Catch-Motherfucking-22, indeed. Major Major
Major Major’s only in when he’s out and out when
he’s in, bitches!
Which brings us back to the vast gulf separating us
from one another. More specifically, to the vast
interstellar region between you and a woman before
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the two of you meet. A space in which there's no
certainty that your molecules will ever collide with
hers, but rather only the potential for that to happen.
I refer to this state of potential meetingness as
Stroke Zero, since no strokes have yet passed
between the two of you--a Stroke being the smallest
unit of human interaction...any verbal or physical (or
limbic, but we're not there yet) communication with
another.
When we meet someone else, the way we interact
is by exchanging strokes.
I stroke you, then you stroke me.
A head nod is a str0ke.
“Hi” is a stroke.
Being asked, “Do you know why I pulled you
over?” is a stroke.
A punch in the face is a stroke.
Giving Becky from accounting a shoulder rub is a
stroke.
(Once more, don't ever do that. Don't ever give
Becky from accounting a shoulder rub. At least not if
your desire is to fuck her some day. You are banned
from giving shoulder rubs—shoulders rub?!--to any
woman you're not already fucking.) (I'm not kidding.
Don't do that. Ever.)
Anyhow, humans have a strong preference for
reciprocity...for keeping things balanced and fair.
If someone strokes us, they want to be stroked
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back, and vice versa. We're happiest when our strokes
come in even numbers.
When you say hello to a co-worker, you expect
some manner of response. If you greet a co-worker
and they don't respond, the stroke counter becomes
stuck on an odd number rather than a more satisfying
2 or 8 or any other even number—which is greatly
disturbing to our spinal cords.
Why didn't they respond, you wonder?
Are they mad at you?
Did you do something wrong?
Do they know something you don't?
Maybe you're about to be fired—and they found
out, but they've been sworn to secrecy. Seriously,
what the hell?!
Normally, I stroke you...then you stroke me...and
everybody's happy.
Unless, of course, that first stroke is a punch in the
face, and then the second stroke would necessarily be
a punch back in their face, and then nobody's happy
and we're right back where we started so the moral of
the story is that if you are going to finally break
through the Universal Silence and actually interact
with another human maybe you might find some
alternate method of stroking them besides than
punching them in their motherfucking face, even
though they probably deserve it and it'd feel so damn
good just to pop the shit out of somebody
and...Squirrel!
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Whew, sorry—if this is the “quiet, writerly” side of
me, can you imagine how fucking exhausting I must
be in person?!
Keeping the strokes balanced extends all the way
to the bedroom. When you suck a woman's pussy,
quite naturally you expect her to suck your cock in
return. And so on. Sex itself boils down to trading lots
of wet, yummy strokes back and forth—sometimes
fast, sometimes slow, but always deliciously.
The ultimate, scrumptious result of this furious
exchange of strokes is that the spinal cords of you and
the woman you've just seduced into your bed are a
little healthier and a little less shriveled up than they
were before.
And that's a game worth learning how to play,
wouldn't you say?!
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37: The Narcissus Test
You are currently at Stroke Zero with virtually every
woman you will seduce for the rest of your life.
(In truth, you're at Stroke Zero with literally—not
virtually—every woman, but if I take away your hope
that you'll someday be able to use your emerging
superpowers to finally win over/back that One
Special Cowgirl who's been two-stepping around the
perimeter of your dance hall for ever so long, then
you'll get mighty sore at me, and I don't want you to
be sore at me, cowboy, so let's just pretend you are
totally gonna get Her one day. Even though, as I say,
you're actually not. But, hell, it's just pretend...and we
can pretend anything right?!)
Once you discover how unexpectedly simple it is
to cross what previously seemed like a vast gap
separating you from some bewitching member of the
opposing sex, then the rather delightful problem you
face is deciding whom to pick.
Of all the women on God's green earth, which one
should you seduce next?
Her?
Or maybe her?
Definitely NOT her!
Definitely, definitely her!
In order to help you winnow down the potential
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number of women to play with from approximately
half of 7 billion to, well, one—one being the total
number of women you can seduce at any given
moment in time; even if you're playing for a
threesome, you first seduce one woman into the game
and then together you decide upon and seduce a
second woman to join in the fun—you first subject
them to a quick and quiet query (a Triple-Double of
alliteration, woot!) that I refer to as the Narcissus
Test.
It's so named because of the Greek hunter who
was suchly enamored of his own damn self that he
stared at his pretty reflection in the river until he fell
in and drowned...or maybe he was torn apart by
angry birds...or perhaps he got lost in a cave—hell,
man, I can't be bothered to Google every goddamn
thing, you know?!
Instead let's whitewash over my ignorance by
sharing with you a lurid secret that somehow never
makes the final cut in those morbidly chipper books
on relationship advice...
All humans possess an innate desire to fuck themselves.
The closer we come to finding a match—
externally,
internally,
whatever-the-fuck-ly—in
another person to ourselves, the more satisfying the
experience of connecting with them.
We long to fuck someone who is as much of a badass as we are...in whatever way we consider ourselves
a bad-ass.
The Narcissus Test is a measure of how close
someone else's perceivable stats are to our own.
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If they're enough like us in looks, status or
whatever category we consider worthwhile, then
we'll fuck them.
Otherwise, not so much.
Let's play a game. (Because, honestly, what the
fuck other option do we have?!)
The game is called Leaving The House.
Which is harder than it seems...like lots of things.
But it's a swell game to play if your aim is to
seduce women, because outside of your house is
where they keep every fucking one of them them.
Together let's step out into the Real-World Gaming
Environment, populated by Players running hither
and yon, making a great show of not talking to one
another, as well as Non-Player Characters mostly
stuck in one place, being paid to nod and smile while
they give us our change or show us where to sign for
the new car we've just leased.
Before we make it two blocks, a stumblebum
reeking of gin and cigarettes saunters up, mumbling
something about giving him a quarter. We keep
walking without a glance or a word. Our perception
of the bum's Social Value is so low that even a
common courtesy such as returning a stroke that
someone’s given us can be safely ignored.
Any time two people come into close enough
proximity to actually notice one another, they each
make instant and unconscious assessments about the
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Social Value of the other. We're not talking about
their actual value, of course. All humans are equally
valuable, naturally. (Well, except for the ones from
Oklahoma—who couldn't even properly be referred
to as human beings, now that I think upon it.)
No, we're speaking about their Social Value--the
perceived status of a person within the context of the
environment you find them in.
In Las Vegas, the biggest rockstar on the planet
would the possess the highest possible status in town.
Yet if you plopped him down in the middle of an
Indian tribe in the Amazon, he'd immediately have
the lowest possible Social Value because of his lack of
raw survival skills. (Now if we're talking Fat Elvis
landing amongst cannibals, then his value to the tribe
would rise in proportion to the temperature of the pot
they planned to cook him in!)
You might be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company
and therefore a Big Swinging Dick amongst the kind
of brilliant, professional women you'd run into at,
say. a Tony Robbins' seminar. But if you showed up
at a bumping nightclub packed with pretty young
things just a couple of years removed from being
teenagers, you'd just be another Creepy Old Guy to
them.
Your relative Social Value according to their
standards would be so low that you'd fail their
Narcissus Test before you ever got a chance to
demonstrate your absolute Social Value—by buying
everybody drinks, or buying the whole friggin'
nightclub, for that matter.
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While we're still at Stroke Zero with someone else,
we're already making guesstimations about their
Social Value relative to our own.
The amount of “awe” we feel in the presence of a
celebrity reflects the gap between what we perceive
our own value to be versus theirs. The higher their
perceived value in our eyes compared to the value we
grant ourselves, the more awestruck we will feel.
And, naturally, this manifests itself as physical
stimuli
in
our
body—which
can
become
overwhelming in the vicinity of people we hold in the
highest esteem.
The reason teenage girls scream their heads off
and actually burst into tears when they get up close
and personal with the latest incarnation of the Beatles
is because they are so completely swamped with
physical sensations in their bodies from the
experience that they've got to dissipate some of those
feelings or they'll explode like a drummer from Spinal
Tap.
Since the game of giving somebody a Narcissus
Test is largely played without ever directly
communicating with the other person, we can be--and
often are--totally wrong in our guess about the
“worthiness” of someone we've just met.
But we never fail to make a guess.
Nor do they fail to make one about us.
These initial guesses concern themselves primarily
with the outside of our fellow players. A young,
attractive woman has high Social Value simply by
virtue of being alive. She doesn't have to be
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intelligent, educated or in any way earn her status
other than being young and pretty. (Hunky young
men of a similar age also get something of a free ride,
although they still usually have to pay for their own
drinks.)
Fast forward twenty or so years and that same girl
won't get anywhere near the traction she once did
based on her youth and looks alone. By then she
needs to clearly demonstrate her status based on
other accomplishments in her life in the interim.
Superficial or not, youth and beautify are highly
prized by every civilization and with each passing
decade we all lose a little value.
To your and my advantage, however, society
seems far more forgiving of men growing older than
it does of women. So long as a man can muster
sufficient wealth, influence and/or fame, he can
continue to increase his Social Value to the bitter end.
Hugh Hefner remains surrounded by attractive (if
you consider vapid, silicon-titted, peroxide blondes to
be attractive) women in their mid-twenties because he
is ALL of those things—wealthy, influential and
famous. Indeed, during the writing of this book,
Hugh Hefner, a man of 86 years, married a former
playmate in her mid-twenties...and not a single
person in the media blinked an eye at the 60 (SIXTY!)
year difference in their ages.
But you certainly don't have to be Hugh Hefner to
give off a glow of higher status. My earlier
encouragements for you to get a handle on your
body, dress more stylishly and make some goddamn
art were all aimed directly at improving your chances
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of passing a woman's Narcissus Test regardless of
your age.
But here's the rub, here's the motherfucking rub...
Most of us don't use the Narcissus Test to narrow
down the torrent of available women to a trickle who
meet our loftitious and superbluous standards.
Nope.
Instead we use the Narcissus Test to fail ourselves.
Unfortunately, that's not a typo.
Rather than taking advantage of our first
impressions of a woman to pre-qualify them as being
worthy of our seductive energies, we mainly end up
disqualifying ourselves—often for the most non-True
and non-Useful of reasons.
She's...
Too young
Too classy
Too tall
Too successful
Too fit
Too sexy
Too all of the above
There's a distinguished title for men who flunk
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themselves left and right, who go out of their way to
reject women before they can be rejected fist: Idiots.
I oughta know...I was the King
Motherfucking Idiots for years and years.
of
the
Nobody in the storied history of the masculine
persuasion ever gave himself more flunking grades
on the single-question, pass-or-fail Narcissus Test
than yours truly. I routinely passed up talking to the
super-sexy girls, or even the sexy-girls, or sometimes
even the plain girls. More often than I'd care to admit
I ended up slumming it in the C.H.U.D. Zone, ugh!
Hell, I coulda joined C.H.U.D. Anonymous!
“My name is John and it's been 24 hours since I
munged a C.H.U.D.”
Because that’s what you’d with a C.H.U.D., right?!
You’d mung her in her mung-hole!
Why oh why did I used to do this?
Why oh why do you sometimes still do the same?
What's up with us not going after the best and the
brightest of the women around us, but instead
lowering the bar all the way to the ground and
settling for the ones we “think” we can get?!
How the fuck can we stop doing that and do
something else instead...such as, oh, maybe seduce an
actual, full-blown, colt-leggish hottie once in a while?!
Well, I’m gonna show you how to get there, my
brother.
But to reach that point we’re gonna have to face
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one of deepest, darkest demons...
Rejection.
Okay...breathe!
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38: If You're Not Getting Rejected Once In A
While, You're Doing It Wrong
Men are so damn nice.
As often as not we don't even wait for a woman to
reject us--we're more than happy to save them the
trouble and do it ourselves. The real reason we do this
has little to do with our actual merits as men and even
less to do with our social value. And it has nothing
whatsoever to do with our self-esteem—which, as
shall nextly discover, is just a fucking myth.
Nor is our penchant for self-rejection something
we can talk ourselves out of or think our way past
through methods peddled by our brothers (and,
increasingly, sisters) in the Pick Up community.
Here’s a secret that would never occur to any of
those fine, upstanding supporters of Standard
Dogma, Inc...
Our Fear of Rejection doesn’t happen in our heads...it
takes place entirely in our bodies.
Specifically, in the overwhelming physical
sensations we feel the closer we get to a high value
woman. The very thought of approaching a megababe lets loose a storm of butterflies in our stomach,
accompanied by a constrictness in our breathing, a
palpitatious heartrate and a woogly-googly of
nervousment.
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And then come the voices.
The voices trying to wave off the landing, abort
the approach and go do something—anything!--other
than our ridiculous plan of talking to that hottie.
Of course, the voices in your head have no clue
whether you can or cannot succeed with a particular
woman. They only want one thing: for the distressing
charge in your body to go away. For the physical
discomfort
of
feeling
“too
much”
to
end...immediately, if not sooner.
As we’ve already explored--and will continue to
explore until this sinks into our DNA--the quickest
way to get rid of those distressful feelings is to
abandon whatever you're currently doing. Thus have
many otherwise strong, decent men failed again and
again to ever ask for what they want—in the
bedroom, the workplace or the world at large.
So that’s Why we avoid going after the real hotties.
Now let’s turn our attention to How we can turn this
around. We’ll do it in two simple steps.
First, no more Narcissus Test. We will no longer
play the game of Passing (or, far more commonly,
Failing) ourselves in advance with any particular
woman. Just gonna stop playing that game, period.
Plus jamais, as we say in French. Never again.
Second, we’re going to Lean Into Sensation.
Not all the way in. Just a little. I'm talking about
brushing the back of your hand against the prickly
thorn of a cactus—not stripping off your clothes and
hurling your entire body on top of a cactus bed like
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Richard Branson running out of his burning house on
Necker Island.
Leaning Into Sensation means moving forward in
a seduction even when the charge in our body
becomes a little uncomfortable.
Imagine you’re at a party and you spy three
women clustered around the kitchen island.
Approaching #1 would be like grabbing a highvoltage wire, #2 like the milder agitation of licking
the top of a 9-volt battery and #3 akin to traipsing
through a field of daisies because she has such low
Social Value in your eyes that talking to her would be
about the same as talking to another dude.
Pick #2.
Leaning Into Sensation doesn't mean forcing
yourself to talk to the hottest babe in the room.
You gotta work your way up to that.
Just lean in as far as you're willing to go—to feel as
much as you can bear and no more. But also no less.
You want to increase your ability to succeed on Miniand Epic Quests alike? Cultivate the habit of feeling
more in your physical body and feeling it longer.
And guess what? Going after slightly (or lotsly)
hotter women than you’re accustomed to means
you're sometimes going to hear, “No.”
But that's good. That's normal. That's healthy.
Like it sez...
If you're not getting rejected once in a while, you're
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doing it wrong.
Whadya say we take this out of the realm of theory
and put it into practice?!
I'm gonna give you an exercise. Now before you
get your Hello Kitty panties in a knot about having to
do an exercise, I should point out that this is the
ONLY exercise I’m giving you...and, of course, it’s not
a written exercise.
Written exercises are stupid.
Nobody actually does them. And even if we did,
the only thing written exercises accomplish is giving
the part of us that plays the game called Writing a few
minutes of practice at writing—which is rarely, if
ever, the point of the fucking exercise in the first
place.
Besides, what we’re doing is not really even an
exercise.
It's a game. (Like everything is.)
This is a game about discovering how to tolerate
more stimulation in your body, and then using that
awareness to get more of what you desire.
And it takes all of two words to explain the entire
rules of the game I want you to play--the game that’s
going to help you learn how to Learn Into Sensation
so you start approaching and seducing hotter women
despite the higher risk of being rejected, and those
two word are...
Skip lunch.
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Say whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?
No, really, that's it. Just skip lunch. Forget to eat
lunch accidentally on purpose...and then put lots of
attention on what happens next in your humanly
fuselage.
Right around lunchtime you'll be fine. But maybe
an hour later, two hours tops, when you still haven't
eaten, you'll begin feeling some sensation, perhaps in
your throat, perhaps in your stomach, and quite
commonly both.
This will be merely a feeling. A physical feeling.
What's interesting isn't the feeling itself, but the story
we attach to it.
Because we always have a story.
And the story may go something like this...
“OhMyGod you need to eat as soon as possible
because if you don't you will die and I'm so hungry
that I'm about to pass out, waaa waaaa, my blood
sugar's low, hurry and make this terrible, painful
feeling of hunger go away right now because waaaa
waaaa my pussy hurts I can't stand it any longer ack
ack boom!”
Or words to that effect.
And in the face of that torrent of unadulterated
victimhood, I would encourage you to merely chuckle
and do nothing.
Obviously don't eat, of course. But, more to the
point, don't try to “fix” whatever you're feeling in
your body. Don't try to make the “hunger sensations”
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disappear through positive thinking or wishery.
Indeed, don't even judge them as positive or negative
sensations. Just notice them and feel into them. And
then continue with the business at hand.
Above all, don't eat until dinner time, no matter
how charged you grow about needing immediate
sustenance. Allowing uncomfortable sensations in our
bodies to overwhelm us and dictate our behaviors can
(and regularly does) ruin our lives and block us from
our greatness.
The more sensation you can learn to tolerate in
your body, the more of all the good things in life that
you run around telling everybody that you want can
actually be yours.
If you can last for an entire afternoon without
eating and yet still maintain your calmness and
productivity and good humor, then you will have
taken a huge motherfucking step forward in
expanding your ability to level up in life.
When you can learn to just “be” with your
physical sensations--however strongish and nagful
they may feel--without panicking or trying to make
them go away, then you’ll have also discovered the
secret to approaching and seducing women whom
you previously flunked yourself for on the Narcissus
Test.
Big Self Help keeps beating us shriekishly over the
head with the mantra that we are slaves to our
thoughts...and if could just change our thoughts, then
our lives will change as a direct result.
Well I call Shenanigans! (The Urban Dictionary
defines “Shenanigans” as: “full of shit, off topic or
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passive-aggressively
annoying”--which
neatly
describes the greater part of the polished turds passed
off as self help wisdom these days.)
We are not slaves to our thoughts.
That's an outright fabrication by people who don’t
know what the fuck they’re talking about. Instead, we
have allowed ourselves to become enslaved by our
sensations. More particularly we've grown addicted to
feeling as few of them as possible.
That’s why our Captain falls asleep. And other
parts of us fall asleep. And finally the rest of us falls
asleep until there’s nothing left.
Leaning Into Sensation pulls out of our internal
Multiverse and into the external Universe, that’s why
we’re playing this game. So here's what we're gonna
do..
Skip lunch.
Just for one day, to start. I'll do it with you. I'll skip
lunch, too, and subject myself to the very same the
gnawing, hollow, yearning feelings in my own corpus
delictum--just to experience first hand what it feels
like to not eat for a few hours in the middle of the
day.
Just as with approaching a woman of higher Social
Value than you'd normally consider, you may feel
like you're going to die if you go through with this. I
promise that you won't die from skipping one little
meal. (Well, you won't die from hunger, at least...I
can't promise you won't be hit by a truck, stray bullet
or meteorite!)
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How can I be so sure you won't perish from
hunger? Because that's not how your body works.
Check this...
Back in the mid-sixties a fellow known to posterity
only as A.B. visited a hospital in Scotland in a
desperate bid to get a handle on his obesity. Dude
weighed 456 pounds, which in America today is
about average, but back then was considered a tad on
the hefty side. The good doctors suggested he
consider fasting—simply not eating at all for a period
of time. They were thinking maybe for a few days or
so, but they let him decide how he wanted to play the
game.
Mr. A.B. shrugged dutifully and disappeared,
never to be seen again.
Well, at least most of him was never seen again.
The rest of him did show up precisely 382 days later.
For that's when A.B. strolled back into the
hospital...and was promptly ignored by the doctors
and nurses on duty, there being nothing particularly
wrong with him. He was just a normal, healthy 28
year-old lad weighing a normal, healthy 180 lbs—
who coincidentally had not eaten a single bite of food
since his last visit to the hospital one year and two weeks
earlier!
He went over twelve months without a single
meal, surviving s0lely and entirely on water and a
daily vitamin!
During his year without eating, A.B. lost 276
pounds, and never gained them back again.
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True motherfucking story.
But, hey, I'm no fucking doctor—so if you do die
from skipping lunch don't come crying to me or
nothing.
By the way, I wrote another book on this same
subject—a short, magical fable about the relationship
you develop with your hunger when you fast for any
length of time. I began the tale while I was in the
midst of a seven-day fast. You can find Dancing With
The Hunger on Amazon.com.
And if by some medical miracle you actually do
survive an entire afternoon without topping off the
gas tank of your stomach, then you may have learned
a poignant lesson.
Discovering how to “sit” with overwhelming
sensations in your body (whether positive or
negative), without trying to fix them or change them,
is a powerful opportunity for growth.
Once it truly sinks in that Rejection actually takes
place in your body rather than in your mind AND
once it sinks in that you—YOU!--can actually tolerate
these awkweird, fiendly, naggish physical sensations
without croaking, then a door to a bold new future of
being rejected by hotter and hotter babes opens up
right in front of you.
Now all you gotta do is walk through it.
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39: EVERYTHING You Know About SelfEsteem is Wrong
Sooner or later even the walk-on fourth-stringers in
the game of Big Self Help get around to writing a
book, recording an audio program and/or creating a
weekend workshop designed to convince you that
you're good enough, you're smart enough and,
doggone it, people like you.
The more you appreciate yourself, they are wont
to say, the more you'll accomplish in life and the
happier you will be.
The Pick Up Gurus even get in on the act,
pumping up their charges until they feel worthy and
deserving enough to hit on the nearest ultra-babe. If
you don't yet have the self-confidence to approach a
10, you are told, you just gotta Fake It 'til You Make It.
Self-esteem is the centerpiece on the altar to the
Machine-Mind that the academics and psychologists
have so studiously erected. The jewel-encrusted
goblet containing the potent elixir of self-esteem
never runs dry, yet it somehow always fails to slake
our thirst to feel better about ourselves...and so we
must continuously come back for more.
The Theory of Self-Esteem holds that we are all
awesome (sounds reasonable enough) and therefore
we should always feel awesome (again, a capital
idea), because the better we feel about ourselves the
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happier and more productive we will be.
And what a happy world this would be if any of
this reflected the human experience as you and I
know it.
But, alas, it does not.
I recognize that I'm much given to hyperbole, but
this time I ain't a-woofin'...
EVERYTHING you know about self-esteem is wrong.
Because the Theory of Self-Esteem itself is wrong.
It is based on false premises—and therefore isn't
True.
Plus it doesn't even work—and therefore isn't
Useful.
Which means it's not a valid theory at all, but
rather just a myth. Yet everybody continues to play
along with the Myth of Self-Esteem.
The world is increasingly divided into two types:
those who are desperate for another fix of selfesteem...and the dealers are hawking the latest
shipment of the good shit.
Self-esteem is the dank weed on the mean streets
of Standard Dogma-ville.
Deep down, everybody knows full well that the
Theory of Self-Esteem is neither True nor Useful—at
least not in their own life.
But nobody talks about it.
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They never bring it into Mutual Knowledge—
where I know that you know something, and you
know that I know that you know it.
And since nobody shares what they know,
everybody thinks they're the only person on the
planet that self-esteem doesn't work for...they're
apparently the only one who can see that the
Emperor’s got no fucking clothes on.
Yet once upon a time there was someone who
didn't buy into the Myth of Self-Esteem.
You've heard of him. His name was Mr. George
Carlin.
He was a man who didn't suffer fools gladly—and
he loved nothing more than to single out the
purveyors of the self-esteem movement as deserving
to be thrown into the lowest rungs of hell...and he
invariably ranked them at the very top of his
legendary list of “People Who Ought To Be Killed”.
Man, the world is a duller place without George
Carlin in it, don't ya think?!
I want to let you in on a secret that may be a tough
pill to swallow at first, but which will immeasurably
improve the quality of your life and your ability to
seduce women if you can get it down...
There's no such thing as self-esteem.
Self-esteem does not exist. At least, not in the sense
intended by everybody who uses that term.
You, sir, are not possessed of an unswerving,
indefatigable sense of self-satisfaction and confidence
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that pervades every aspect of the adventure of being
you--for the by-now obvious reason that there is no
global “you” to feel all or any of that.
The Myth of Self-Esteem postulates that our lives
will be greatly enhanced by feeling really good about
ourselves all the time, regardless of which
crewmember is out and which game it's playing.
But that's not the way the human experience plays
out.
Ever.
Case in point...
The term “self-esteem” was coined in the 1890's by
a true pioneer of intellect and accomplishment, Prof.
William James. Yet despite being a widely revered
medical doctor, philosopher and psychologist, as well
as the author of several enduringly important books-and, quite frankly, a genuine bad-ass--Mr. James' own
life was remarkable for its complete and utter absence
of the very concept that he himself had formulated.
William James had the self-esteem of a rock.
A rock with very low self-esteem, mind you.
So not even like a Pet Rock or The Rock or
anything. Just a regular fucking rock.
William James was incessantly plagued by real
and imaginary ailments in some part of his body or
another that caused him crippling pains and distress.
He suffered physically and emotionally non-stop and
was tediously vocal about it. The good professor was
also a world-class depress-erino who tottered on the
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edge of suicide for years at a time, but ultimately
lacked the courage to go through with it.
How could a man of such great attainments have
been such a simmering kettle of miserable? If selfesteem were a real thing, shouldn't William James of
all the fucking people in the world have possessed it
in spades?
Or, if not him, how about that Beethoven chap?
Good old Ludwig van was easily the second-best
composer of all time, yet he was another tragic,
depressed, semi-suicidal sod.
As was the chronically gloomy Charles Darwin,
whose irrational fears of the outside world were so
highly evolved that they forced him to hide away as a
virtual recluse for most of his later years.
Now if you were to ask any of the Keepers of the
Standard Dogma why men of the greatest
accomplishment in the history of the motherfucking
world could possibly have been plagued by such
abysmal self-esteem, they'd react like the apes from
the opening sequence of 2001: A Space Odyssey—
grunting howlishly and scratching their swollen
heads at the baffling black monolith in front of them.
And if you want to send these braniacs into a fullblown myocardial infarction, simply pose a follow-up
question asking them how it's simultaneously
possible that some of the most toxic members of
society—sociopaths,
career
criminals
and
politicians—regularly score off the charts on
standardized tests of self-esteem?!
According to received wisdom, self-esteem is
supposed to be a good quality and the more good you
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bring to society, the more you should have of it. And
the more bad you do, the less you should have.
That just makes sense, right? But that's not the way
it pans out.
Many of the most awesome people you know
think they're shit.
You might be one of them.
Many of the shittiest people you know think they
are the shit.
You might work for one of them.
We could lock all the Keepers of the Standard
Dogma and a hundred monkeys besides in the same
room and they wouldn't be able to come up with the
first clue as to explain why their fabled model of selfesteem crashes and burns at on either end of the
spectrum—and frequently collapses everywhere in
the middle, as well.
Mind you, they're not playing stupid.
They are stupid.
“If your model of the world disagrees with experiment,”
Dick “Hung Out With Strippers Every Afternoon”
Feynman taught us, “it's wrong. Period.”
Once more, with feeling...
Self-esteem is a myth. It does not exist. It doesn't
exist in the Actual Reality outside of us. And it most
certainly doesn't exist in the Game Reality within us.
The only place that self-esteem can be said to exist
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is as an ephemeral construct in the minds of the
Gurus whose vacation-home mortgages rather
depend on it.
Okay, it's not like you didn't know this was
coming, but let's go ahead and get it over with...
Fuck self-esteem!
AND the hobby horse it galumphed in on!
So if you've been waiting around for a dusting of
self-esteem—or worthiness or amour propre or some
other nominalization du jour—to be sprinkled upon
you like magical fairy dust that will finally provide
you with enough confidence and courage to talk to
that girl or compose that symphony or do any of the
things you've always wanted to do but didn't have
the inner fortitude to go through with, then your wait
is over.
But probably not in the way you imagined or
hoped for.
I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if you're
waiting for Godot—motherfucker ain't coming!
Here's how you actually work...
Each of your various parts are at a DIFFERENT
point on a continuum that ranges from completely
sucking at playing their game to being a bonafide
Master at it.
Even if none of your crewmembers has yet
summited their own personal Mount Everest, the
more hours they put into their game, the higher they
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climb and the better they become.
And one of the most delightful secondary gains
that follows from climbing higher on the mountain is
developing an awareness of how high up you are.
When you can look down and see last year's Base
Camp thousands of feet below you, then you know
damn well that you're making good progress.
When one of your parts is halfway up the
mountain, it still kinda sucks at playing its game, but
it sucks a lot less than it used to.
And it knows it.
It knows it sucks less. And that feels good.
But it also knows it still sucks some. And that feels
less good.
We've already touched on how the (random-ish,
but convenient) 10,000 hour milestone is as much
about getting better on the inside of us at any given
game as it is about improving our motor skills or
whatever on the outside.
When a crewmember finally summits and no
longer sucks at playing its game, he fucking owns it.
At the height of Michael Jordan's career, the side of
him that played basketball knew exactly what a force
of nature it was.
Of course that part of him didn't start out that
way. In his early years, Jordan's hoops-playing avatar
thought it sucked and others agreed—most famously
Pop Herring, the gruffish coach who cut him from his
high school basketball team.
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But Mike Jordan, as he was then known, kept
putting in the hours slogging up the mountain until
eventually he didn't suck at all, either inside or out,
playing brown ball.
On the other end of spectrum...
If you're just now emerging from your Man Cave
after having sequestered yourself from the Stream of
Life, as Goethe liked to call it, for last few months or
years while grieving for the rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels named Lenore or whatever the fuck
you were up to, then it's likely that your Lover is
somewhat or completely out of practice at
approaching and seducing women.
Hell, he might have never been “in practice” to
start with.
In which case, your Lover may be closer to the
Suck end of the continuum of the game of seducing
women than he is to Mastery.
If that's the case, then your Lover knows it. And it
probably pisses him off. He's grumpy and upset by
his awareness of how much he sucks.
But the truth is...
Our parts always, always, always suck when they first
start playing their game.
There's no getting around that.
Although the self-esteem-inators want you to
believe exactly the opposite, it's actually a good thing
that our parts know when they suck at their game.
Having an awareness of how sucky or masterful
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we are at playing a game can be crucial to your
survival.
Literally.
Suppose you recently decided to learn how to fly a
plane.
To that end, last week you took your very first
lesson. Now if I come along and suggest we rent a
plane this afternoon so you can fly me around, you
would go inside yourself and consult with the
crewmember who's learning to fly. His quick
response would basically be, “Fuck no. We ain't even
close to being there yet.”
Which is the truth.
It takes hundreds and hundreds of hours of
classroom study and flying time with an instructor to
even reach the point of being able to fly solo. And
then a thousand or more hours to get good at it.
Eventually, a year from now or three years from
now when you have a few thousand hours of flying
time under your belt we could replay this scenario
and I could suggest we fly the friendly skies in your
plane.
At that point you would go within yourself and
the part of you that's now become a bad-ass flyboy
absolutely knows how good it as at playing that
game, and so it would say, “Fuck yeah. I am good at
that flying shit—let's do it!”
Developing the certainty that it knows how to play
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its game well is a natural progression that any part
goes through as it approaches Expertise. And being
super-frustrated during the initial days and months of
climbing the learning curve of a new game is just as
much of a natural and unavoidable stage.
And, again, each of our crewmembers has to climb
its own mountain.
There's not just one big mountain just as there's
not one big us.
Every game is its own mountain.
Climbing Mount Entrepreneur doesn't give you
any advantage or headstart whatsoever if you later
opt to climb Mount Chess.
This is just another reason why the Myth of SelfEsteem is nothing more than a soft turd in a flaming
paper bag some jackass left on our doorstep.
The fact that Messers James, Beethoven and
Darwin had pulled off daring and spectacular
summits of the mountains of philosophy or music or
the natural sciences was of no help to their other
crewmembers in not feeling sucky about whatever
they felt sucky about during their long, dark, soulsucking nights.
Every single hour spent trudging and hauling
itself up Mastery Mountain applies only to the lone
crewmember making the ascent. Restated in what
radio icon Paul Harvey liked to call, “short-sleeve
English”...
Stats are non-transferable between our parts.
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Although Michael Jordan summited in the game of
basketball—not just summited, but moved the
summit higher than it had ever been before!--unless
he's also spent some portion of 10,000 hours
scrambling up the foothills and escarpments of the
mountain of learning to speak Chinese or
programming in Ruby On Rails, then he wouldn't
(and shouldn't) have any particular confidence that he
can play either of these games at a high level.
Because he can't.
Yet.
The Myth of Self-Esteem essentially asks us to
pretend to be outstanding at games that we
legitimately still suck at.
Even more absurdly, it urges us to feel a global
sense of positive-ness and confidentiosity about all
the possible games that our crewmembers could
possibly play.
My friend, that's the start of a Monty Python
sketch, not a way to live your life.
Since our troops get better at their game both on
the outside AND the inside as part of their long,
purposeful apprenticeship, the confidence they
ultimately develop about playing the game is a
natural byproduct of getting good at it.
It's well-documented that getting good grades
leads to higher self-esteem, but higher self-esteem
does not lead to better grades.
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As Ray Baumeister puts it, “Self-esteem is a result,
not a cause.”
There's no formula we can learn, no mantra we
can repeat, no amount of PostIt Notes we can affix to
the bathroom mirror that can accelerate the increasing
confidence that naturally flows from climbing higher
up the mountain.
Nor would we want there to be.
The essential message of Seth Godin's delightful
tome, The Dip, is that EVERYBODY sucks at playing
any particular game until they make it across the
“dip” that separates them from where they are now to
where they want to be.
Fame and fortune await the few who can reach the
other side of dip precisely because the ones who
make it are few in number.
And we can only cross that gap one crewmember
at a time.
Each individual member of our inner team has to
individually haul its own ass every step of the way to
the top of its own mountain.
Again...
Stats are non-transferable between our parts.
However—and this IS a mighty big however, I
gotta admit—once any one of your crewmembers has
summited, another member of your gang may
become emboldened to attempt an ascent of its own.
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This second side of you is well aware of the wine,
women and song that flow from the first part having
reached such lofty heights, and so it will sometimes
negotiate with your Captain to make its own run at
the 10,000 hour barrier.
After you've scaled Mt. Everest, then K2 can look
mighty enticing.
Mighty, mighty enticing.
Plus, like attracts like and bad-asses prefer to hang
out with other bad-asses. Just as millionaires want to
chum around with other millionaires, once a part of
you has summited, it prefers to associate with parts
that can also play at an elevated level.
Some of the most bad-ass people you'll ever meet
will have two or even three crewmembers that have
summited completely different mountains—along
with several others who are furiously making ascents
of their own.
And that is where the “self-esteem” of Great Men
comes from, my friend—not from incantations
delivered
by
smackish
characters
hawking
positivefullness and swell thinkery.
Here's the closely guarded secret that the high
priests preaching the Gospel of Self-Esteem would
rather have their faces gnawed off by rats in a rusty,
Orwellian cage around their heads than admit out
loud...
Not only are you not good at everything...you actually
suck at almost everything.
Because we all suck at the shit we suck at.
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Which is most things.
But at least we're in good company! We all start off
in the Suck-Zone and we're stuck there until we get
out.
And it hurts to be there.
Neo: “Why do my eyes hurt?”
Morpheus: “You've never used them before.”
Nobody in the history of the world didn't suck at a
new game when they first started playing it.
But if they kept playing, they got better. Both on
the outside, in terms of the absolute speed with which
they can press the button on a slot machine designed
to extract the life savings from the marrow of their
bones, as well as on the inside, as they improve at
ignoring the clamor and brouhaha of all their other
crewmembers who noisily and justifiably object to
losing their combined life savings into this demon
machine!
Until you get good at seducing women, you're going to
suck at it.
Do it anyway.
If approaching and seducing an ultra-babe is too
much stimulation, keep chunking down until you can
lean into your sensations at some point of tolerable
uncomfortability. It won't be easy. Choosing the Path
of Greater Sensation means choosing to wake up.
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For a man who hasn't gotten laid in a while (and,
believe, I've been there!), even seducing a plain girl
can be almost overwhelming.
But just stick with it.
And don't knock plain girls.
Plain girls swallow.
I've got one final secret for you here. And I'm even
going to resist the temptation to label it as the most
astonishable and happysome revelation in the history
of everything. Instead, I'll simply refer to it as a tiny
toss-off secret that looks like one of those small steps
for man--but which you could easily parlay into a
giant leap for mankind. So here's the Little Secret That
Could...
Even though you are going to suck at seducing women
in the early going, the women you will be seducing suck
just as much or more at being seduced.
They don't know anything more about seduction
than you do.
In fact, they'll know much, much less than you.
At least you're here putting in the hours crawling
out of the Suck-Zone, while the womenfolk are so
damn lost they don't know which way is up.
I mean, God bless 'em.
But you realize what that gives us, young man?
Hope.
It gives us hope.
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Because even though we're gonna suck when we
first start playing this game, a good many of our
fellow players will suck even worse. And that gives
us at least some hope of success from the get-go—
which is a delightful luxury indeed!
Now I want you to hang tightly to that hope, since
just down the road things are about to get even
weirder.
What am I saying?
Roads?
Where we're going, we don't need roads!
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40: Quantum & Sexual Entanglement
Physics,
like people, ain't just one big monolithic
entity. There are several branches, which are as
different from one another as any of our
crewmembers are from each other.
The physics of our magically cooked friend
Newton focuses on fundamental forces, from a falling
apple to the universe as a whole. Relativity, the
physics of wildebeest-haired Prof. Einstein, explores
matter when it's moving quickly, up to and including
the speed of light. And Quantum physics burrows
into the very, very strange realm of things that are
very, very small--a bizarro-land where the laws of
Newton and Einstein suddenly no longer apply.
Quantum physics is so weird that scientists
chucklingly refer to as the “platypus of physics”!
(This passes for grand humor among nerds, don't ya
know?!) And certainly no aspect of Quantum physics
is weirder than the principle of Quantum
Entanglement.
Legendary MIT physics professor, Walter Lewin,
summed it up best: “The most bizarre, the most
absurd, the most crazy, the most ridiculous prediction
that Quantum mechanics makes is Entanglement.”
And the reason we're having a discussion about it
in the middle of a book on seduction is because
Quantum Entanglement deftly explains one of the
heretofore most inexplicable events in the entire
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human experience...
What happens a man and a woman meet?
Why do they sometimes click and sometimes not?
What mysterious, unpredictable forces come into
play during the initial moments when a man and a
woman connect for the first time?
If we can better understand the intricate dance
played out just beneath the surface during the first
second or two of our initial contact with a woman,
this has the potential to forever change our
conception of what it means to approach and seduce a
member of the fairer sex.
Which is kind of a big deal.
That is, if you want more fucking.
If you’d rather play dead-end games like giving
shoulder rubs and flirting with NPCs and make out
sessions, go to fucking town! It's always easier to keep
playing the games we're accustomed to.
Learning a new game is hard. It hurts to endure
those all goddamn uncomfortable sensations while
sitting in the Suck-Zone without running away until
we get good enough to reach that luscious day when
a part of us can play its game with slightly less
suckage than ever before!
According to Quantum Entanglement, whenever
two particles “meet”, they have the potential to
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particle rather than two separate particles.
This happens instantaneously and unpredictably.
And once it happens, it stays happened. These two
formerly separate entities now exert a direct,
measurable effect on one another.
This super-particle is bound together energetically,
but not necessarily physically--you can move them an
infinite distance from one another and their
connection remains intact.
If you stop and measure one of the particles, it has
a 50-50 chance of exhibiting variables such as
up/down, positive/negative and plaid/polka dot or
whatever flavor of the month is.
Now here's the cool part, if, at the EXACT instant
that you test the properties of Particle 1, you also test
Particle 2, you will discover that its spin, position,
momentum, polarization, etc. will always-invariably100%-of-the-time-without-fail reflect the opposite,
corresponding value to its mate.
At the moment of observation, therefore, Particle 1
somehow “transmits” a Qubit (the smallest quantum
unit of information...basically, the universe's
equivalent of a Stroke) to Particle 2 that lets it know
what value it's decided to exhibit so that Particle 2 can
take on the opposite value.
Again, it doesn't matter how far apart the particles
are. Even if they're separated by light-years, they can
put on the Quantum Entanglement Show any damn
time you like.
Every
other
fundamental
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diminishes over distance.
But not Quantum Entanglement.
And the effect that the particles have on one
another is always instantaneous regardless of how far
apart they are, even if they're farther apart than light
itself can travel in an “instant”. The quantum data
that lets the second particle know what value the first
particle possesses can travel superluminally, meaning
it can (and somehow magically does) travel faster than
the speed of light.
How this information actually gets transmitted
between the two particles has baffled the greatest
minds since the mid-1930's, when Quantum
Entanglement was first observed. This apparently
telepathic communication between two bits of matter
doesn't adhere to any other known laws of the
universe, yet it has been observed and proven over
and over again.
Smart guy Albert Einstein was so pissed off by this
phenomenon that he spent years of his life trying
without success to disprove Quantum Entanglement,
which he famously referred to as “spooky action at a
distance”.
Legendary cat torturer Erwin Schrodinger called
Quantum Entanglement “THE characteristic trait of
quantum physics, the one that enforces its entire
departure from classical lines of thought.”
It's worth noting that all the high-level work being
done around the globe today on attempting to create
Star Treky teleportation devices depends entirely on
the “spooky action at a distance” of Quantum
Entanglement.
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If Quantum Entanglement ranks as the most
mysterious phenomenon in the known universe, then
the mystery of what goes down when Boy Meets Girl
surely ranks a close second.
So let's turn around and apply our strange new
model of how quantum particles forge a connection
with one another to the somewhat larger entities
represented by a man and a woman.
Because people can become Entangled, too.
Sexually Entangled.
And to understand how, let's invite another
colorful character on stage: the Singularity.
In the beginning of the universe there was a whole
shitload of nothing.
Okay, not technically true.
All the shit we have now already existed, but to
save space it was shrunk down to an infinitesimal
speck known as the Singularity. It contained not only
all the matter in the universe, but the “blueprint” on
how to expand into all the colorful, zippy clusters and
super-clusters of galaxies that we know and love
today.
Of course, until that Singularity existed, only the
potential for our universe existed.
Similarly, before the community of particles called
a Guy and the community of particles called a Doll
first encounter one another, they have no connection.
No Entanglement, no nothing.
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And then they collide—upon which they either
become Sexually Entangled or they don't.
If No, they can still know one another and be
friends or co-workers or whatnot, but they will never
be tight, never be lovers, never have that extra special
something that any two people can have for one
another.
If Yes, then their Entanglement leads inevitably to
the birth of a sort of singularity between them that
has the potential to expand into the universe of their
entire relationship—whether for a night or a lifetime.
This is the Seduction Singularity.
In one moment, you and a woman are still
complete strangers to one another. In the next, you
notice one another for the first time.
You're still at Stroke Zero--you haven't explicitly
communicated in words yet, even though all sorts of
communication is going on outside of your ability to
perceive it.
If and when you become Sexually Entangled with
a woman, the seeds of a Seduction Singularity also
become manifest.
And now you are no longer two distinct
communities of particles, you are one supercommunity that contains the entirety of the Divine
Feminine and the Masculine Ideal.
Just as any piece of a holograph contains the
whole picture, the Seduction Singularity represents
every possibility of your mutual exchange of energies.
Everything that transpires in the ensuing seduction,
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regardless of how long that seduction lasts, flows
from the original Seduction Singularity.
The Seduction Singularity is the condensed
burning fire of your combined desires, able to expand
infinitely in every direction--like the Cosmic Inflation
that delivered the universe to its current form today.
You are now in a position to appreciate that my
personal hesitation in playing the Relationship game
isn't because True Love doesn't exist...but rather
because True Love exists in infinite measure.
In truth, we have the potential to become Sexually
Entangled with any woman--or man or goat, for that
matter...you get to play this game absolutely any way
you desire and fuck anybody who tells you
otherwise!--which also means we have the potential
to become Entangled with every one of them.
Every single time we become Sexually Entangled
with someone else, a Seduction Singularity comes into
existence—and with it the potential for True Love to
expand infinitely in every direction.
And yet...
Not every particle or person becomes entangled with
every other.
You cannot make this happen.
No amount of intention or desire will entangle you
someone else.
Nevertheless, the potential to become entangled
always exists whenever two people meet.
And when that happens, a new Seduction
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Singularity is the inevitable result.
This is true whether or not you can (for social
reasons, say) or will (your God wouldn't approve)
actually seduce the woman you've just become
entangled with.
Here's a seriously inconvenient secret that nobody
ever talks about nor will ever fucking own up to...
On some obsequious, purple, clairvoyant, nevergonna-speak-of-it level, you are Sexually Entangled
with many of the woman you are “just friends” with-which means you would totally fuck them...and vice
versa. If a Seduction Singularity did manifest between
the two of you, then the potential—not the certainty,
but the potential—for a successful seduction is 100%.
She will deny it.
You will deny it.
Everybody wants to play, but nobody wants to get
messy.
People are afraid to get off the boat. And well they
should be. Like they say in Apocalypse Now...
Never get off the fucking boat.
Unless...
You're going all the way.
And that's what we're doing here. Going all the
way. Yet from time to time I like to remind you that
you really don't have to do any of this. You always
can stay on the fucking boat.
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Most sensible people do.
Every time you connect with another person
there's a possibility that the two of you will
experience Einstein's “spooky action at a distance”
and become Entangled.
This process isn't dependent on anything you say
or do. Sexual Entanglement occurs independently of
any words you might speak to one another.
It isn't necessarily Love At First Sight or
Nothing—but close.
If you don't become Sexually Entangled during
your first significant interaction with a woman then
the chances of it occurring later range from slim to
none.
(Again, didn't invent this game, just reporting
from the front lines on how it's played.)
You can become better at noticing a new-born
Seduction Singularity. The more you Lean Into
Sensation, the sooner you will learn to feel the
“Spark” that is the natural byproduct of becoming
Sexually Entangled with a woman.
It's a subtle and yet palpable sensation--with the
softness of the clicking of a ballpoint pen...like pieces
of each of you gently snapping into place.
In the beginning you're going to suck at noticing
when the click happens—that precise, palpable instant
when you and a woman become entangled—because
we all suck at everything until we suck less at it.
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So don't get all frustramerated and selfgrumpstrational that you “can't feel anything” when
you initially meet a woman. Just continue to stop
failing yourself on the Narcissus Test and keep
pushing past Stroke Zero with the dames you
encounter, and eventually you'll also suck less at
noticing when the Seduction Singularity happens.
Since the feminine is more connected to physical
stimuli because of the Infinite Desire flowing through
her, by Nature a woman more readily perceives the
formation of a Seduction Singularity; by Nurture,
however, she frequently won't give you any external
indication that she's aware of the Spark, because to do
so would give away her hand.
And that's because, once a woman is Entangled
with a man, if he genuinely knows how to seduce her
then she'll be virtually powerless to resist. And the
feminine—powerful, violent and cruel as it is--doesn't
like feeling powerless.
If your Lover becomes Entangled with a woman's
Naughty Girl, then the two of you are Sexually
Entangled.
But that's still just one crewmember on each side.
Every other part of you could dislike every other
part of her, but if your Lover and her Naughty Girl
are Sexually Entangled, then the potential for a
successful seduction exists.
Here's one of those fundamental secrets that
virtually none of the men and virtually all of the
women are aware of...
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A woman doesn't have to like you in order to fuck you.
The only requirement is that her Naughty Girl
feels the Spark with your Lover. Everything else is
optional.
Naturally, any of your troops can become
Entangled with any other member of somebody else's
crew in a non-sexual way...and often do. The Job Part
of you might become Professionally Entangled with a
charismatic boss or superstar employee, but doesn't
mean you want to fuck them—until and unless your
naughty parts also get in on the game.
Similarly, you can become Spiritually Entangled
with your pastor or Creatively Entangled with your
artistic pals or even Domestically Entangled with
your pets.
We've got colors and flavors and variety of
Entanglement aplenty.
Left to its own devices, the Seduction Singularity
of a Sexual Entanglement will remain at a resting
state—possessing merely the potential for a seduction.
Charcoal briquettes don't cook the motherfucking
steaks by themselves.
You gotta light the little bitches on fire and fan the
flames, baby.
Similarly, you've got to pour energy into the space
between you and a woman to keep turning the heat
up.
Which is exactly how any Quantum Leap works.
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You keep adding energy to an electron until finally it
can't take it anymore and it levels up.
Everything in nature levels up...because everything in
nature is a game.
The goal of the upcoming 22 Strokes is to give you
a framework for continuously adding heat and
leveling up until you and the woman you're seducing
reach a boil.
Then together you make steam.
is.
And, as we already know, steam's where the party
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41: To Decide, or Not To Decide,
That Is The Question
When a pirate's about to raid another ship, he doesn't
send out a hand-written note on scented paper
politely inquiring if boarding them just after tea time
next Tuesday would prove convenient.
No, he keeps his fucking mouth shut and goes
after the other ship when they're not expecting it.
We haven't shared a secret for a minute, so here's
one...
The less a woman expects your seduction, the greater
your chances of success.
Because nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.
Or something.
Although surprise is one of the most robust forces
in psychology, it's also one of the most overlooked.
Even the cool kids hardly ever talk about it, despite
the fact that surprise thoroughly permeates the
human experience…in sports, humor and gambling,
as well as in our romantic and sexual encounters.
The element of surprise can be your best friend
during a seduction--heightening the experience for
you both.
She may revel in the surprise that sex was even on
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the menu today, when she wasn't particularly (or at
all) expecting it. She might relish the surprise that her
Naughty Girl was so damn eager to come out and
play—and that her Bodyguard was equally ready to
permit it. Most especially, a women may feel
surprised and delighted when she discovers she has
to do so little Heavy Lifting before getting to enjoy
sex.
Rather than having to feign interest in every last
detail of some random dude's predictable life for date
after predictable date until he finally works up the
backbone to make a move, she gets the rare
opportunity to indulge in her Infinite Desire right
away and then get back to her busy life.
Some of our most enduringly enjoyable moments
in life hinge upon surprise—not the least of which is
expressing our sexuality unexpectedly with people
we barely know or have just met.
But that's not the way we usually do it. The Party
Line wants us believe that having The Sex is a really,
really big deal and should be the subject of a long and
purposeful investigation beforehand.
A woman “needs” ample time to decide if she
even wants to have The Sex...and then still more time
to figure out if you are whom she wants to have The
Sex with...and then she (or you) still need to solve the
logistics of exactly where the two of you will have The
Sex.
It's a wonder anyone ever has The Sex at all!
Because that's a lot to think about. As it turns out...
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All that thinking carries a price.
The more we are forced to make decisions, the
worse we become at making them and the more likely
we are to select an option we'll come to thoroughly
regret later—such as flipping off a cop while drunk or
attending Law School.
People are only able to make a finite number of
decisions before growing wearyful from the effort.
Too many choices in a row simply tires us the fuck
out--a well-studied and thoroughly documented
phenomenon known as Decision Fatigue.
It's that state where we're just fried and don't want
to do any more thinking for a while.
This mental lethargy can result from the long, slow
grind of just another day at the office. The
professionals who study Decision Fatigue have
observed that prisoners are statistically far likely to be
granted parole if their hearing is scheduled in the
morning, while the parole board is still bright eyed
and bushy tailed. If their appointment comes towards
the end of the day, after everybody's all fatigued from
making too many weighty decisions, then chances are
good the convict is gonna remain the Bitch of Cell
Block C for another year or three.
Or Decision Fatigue can come from just one BIG
decision in a row.
“That's it, I've decided I’m leaving that bitch! Shit,
now I’m all tired and need a nap! Okay, I'm leaving
that bitch...right after I take this nap!”
Some people seem to dwell permanently in the
heavy fog of perpetual Decision Fatigue.
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Some of these people may be your friends.
Some of them may be you.
“What do you wanna do?”
“I dunno...what do you wanna do?”
“I dunno.”
“Me, neither.”
“Wait, what are we deciding—what to do or
where to eat?”
“Oh, I thought we were choosing which movie to
watch?”
“Oh, so which one should we pick first?”
“Dunno—which one do you wanna pick first?”
Shrug.
Learning hurts.
So does making choices.
To acquire new knowledge or to make new
connections between existing knowledge, our brains
literally grow new synapses and neurons.
Learning is like a remodeling job that never ends.
We can only sustain the effort of terraforming our
mind with new synaptic connections for a short time
before reaching saturation...after which our
performance declines precipitously. That's why
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quarterbacks typically make their worst choices and
throw their stupidest interceptions late in a game.
It’s why politicians tweet pictures of their junk to
some bright-eyed teen from Sugarbaby.com after 2
am--at the tail end of a long day of being a
professional asshole.
It's not for nothing that Big Box stores the world
over line their check-out area with sugary, carbtastic
snackage. They know that by the time we reach the
registers, our decision-making abilities have fallen
through the floor after all that choosing between
dozens of styles of jeans and 128 flavors of salad
dressing.
The phenomenon of Decision Fatigue has drawn
the feverish attention of business and military leaders
alike because of its conspicuous drain on our
Collective Productivity.
If ringing up one more customer's purchases or
shooting one more Commie (we still shoot Commies,
don't we?!) pushes someone into Decision Fatigue,
then the planet might soon be overrun with
customers who didn't pay for their shit or non-dead
Commies or (shudder!) both.
One of the reasons that Monogomy (dude, I can't
even spell that word correctly!) tugs at us with so
much gravity is because it handily solves one the
weightiest problems that fatigues personkind—whom
shall I love and fuck...and who shall return love and
fuck me in return?!
Once we've picked our latest One True Soulmate
(TM), then it's all decided and we don't have to make
any more decisions in that department for the rest of
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our life—or until a few months later when they
abruptly and without apology abandon us on the
street like a puppy they wish they’d never adopted
and we’re standing there all broken-hearted and
crying while people walk past pretending not to see
us...oh sorry, got a little carried away there, ‘cause
that, ummm, happened to a like a friend of mine or
something.
Women will tell you that when her man forbids
her from fucking other men he’s showing “how much
he loves her.” His unwillingness to share her is how
she knows it’s love.
Right.
Meanwhile, in the world the rest of us actually live
in, here’s the real secret to the enduring popularity of
Monotony...
Not having permission to fuck other men is a huge
burden off a woman’s already occupied mind and
represents an entire huge category that she no longer needs
to think about, so she's plenty willing to sign up for that
shit.
And that goes double for men, who’s brains are so
goddamned relieved when they finally find a regular
source of pussy that they’ll agree to just about any
demand to hang onto it for a little longer.
Meanwhile, Decision Fatigue has screwed YOU
out of many of your attempted seductions.
More than once you've become Sexually Entangled
with a lovely member of the female persuasion, but
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when it finally came time for her to make one last
decision and say “Yes” to fucking you, she was too
fogged from the weight of all the other microdecisions and questions you asked and answers to do
anything other than say, “Listen, I'm really tired, let's
just call it a night.”
And if your experience is anything like mine,
another opportunity to make sweet love down by
river with this particular lady never returned.
You just got fucked over by Decision Fatigue, my
friend...and they don't even MAKE a goddamn t-shirt
for that!
If a woman who would otherwise fuck you is in
the throes of Decision Fatigue, she'll abort or sabotage
a beautifully crafted seduction for no good reason
other than avoiding the foggish necessity of making
any further decisions--especially the inevitable Yes or
No to The Sex that seems to hang over her head like
the Sword of Damocles.
Here's a secret that'll win you a lot of admirers
amongst the fairer sex if you'll just make the effort to
master it...
A woman's capacity to enjoy herself during a seduction
is directly related to her opportunity to avoid Decision
Fatigue entirely.
The 22 Strokes coming so very soon (yay!) were
specifically designed to afford a woman the rare and
beautiful experience of letting go of control, so she
can relax into the experience and feel into her Infinite
Desire without running headlong into the brick wall
of Decision Fatigue.
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And it shouldn't surprise you to discover that the
fewer choices a woman is required to make, the more
will fall to you...such that your risk of losing your way
in the Fog of Overthinkery becomes a cause of
genuine concern.
Not to worry, I've got a plan--I’ve done thought
this shit all the way through for ya so you ain’t gotta.
But first, speaking of surprises, here's a shocker...
The fine folks over at Standard Dogma Inc. have
folded, spindled and mutilated Decision Fatigue from
every conceivable angle, and for once they’ve actually
colored outside the lines and come up with a model
to describe something that has touches of both poetry
and magic.
Their model of Decision Fatigue is as precious as a
skinny 7th grade boy writing a love sonnet in
calligraphy to impress a curvy high school freshman.
So this time around I am actually loathe to rain on
their parade and make fun of their efforts, bless their
little hearts.
Besides, my mother taught me that if I don't have
anything nice to say about somebody, I shouldn't say
anything at all.
Or, at least she would've taught me that if she
hadn't drank herself to death while I was still a kid,
leaving me to be raised by a cruel foster family.
But enough about my sad, lonely childhood.
Here's their Actual & Official Explanation of Decision
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Fatigue...
We have within us a little reservoir of Cognitive
Resources that we can apply towards thinking about
shit (except they're not allowed to say “shit”--they'd
get their toupees washed out with soap for that!) or
deciding shit.
This pool of Cognitive Resources is finite and
easily drained—and when it runs out we become
acutely limited in our ability to make further
decisions.
For some mysterious, inexplicable reason, our SelfControl is also powered by this same tank of
liquidious Cognitive Resource juice and once the tank
runs low we are said to be in a state of Ego Depletion,
meaning our decision-making ability AND our willpower both crap out so that we can't think our way
out a paper bag while simultaneously becoming
unable to resist any temptations that surround us.
Again, this is an actual model published by
professional academics in peer-reviewed publications,
not some more crazy shit I just made up.
Their model apparently explains why otherwise
decent people whose supply of Cognitive Resource
juice has been drained by furiously using their brains
all day long at work will come home and kick their
kids and yell at their dog and then find themselves
completely unable to resist should you say to them, “I
know you're on a diet, but would like one of these
delicious chocolate-chip cookies I just baked?!”
Gobble-gobble!
Snarf-snarf!
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All gone!
I call it the Top Fuel Model of Decision Fatigue.
Their framework seemingly postulates that under
the hood of our skulls there's an 8000 horsepower,
nitro-injected Top Fuel engine sitting atop a firebreathing dragster that's capable of catapulting us
down the track at over 300 mph—but this supercharged engine is only good for about a quarter-mile
of effort before we exhaust our limited supply of Top
Fuel. Then we gotta turn the motherfucker around
and top off the tanks with more rocket sauce before
we can make another run.
Man, I love dragsters.
And I sooooooooo wish their Top Fuel model of
Decision Fatigue was True.
Or Useful.
Or something.
Because this is a serious problem. So many of us go
through life in the death grip of Decision Fatigue-overwhelmed by the stress of the almost infinite
variety of choices in modern society.
We wander around lost
metaphorical fog of indecision.
in
I fucking spent years doing that.
Like we all do.
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Fortunately there is a solution...but, of course, it's
not the one's they're selling us.
To date the Dogma Squad have only postulated
two solutions for Decision Fatigue—though believe
you me lots of corporations are pouring lots of money
into a mad scramble to ferret out more so they can put
the squeeze on improving our Collective
Productivity.
One of their official antidotes is simply a Bad Idea,
while the other is the Worst Idea Ever...and I say that
merely in the spirit of Truth in Advertising and not
with any kind of judgment attached, just in case you
wondered.
Their Bad Idea:
You simply wait around for the Cognitive
Resource tanks of the Top Fuel dragster of your mind
to naturally refill of their own accord—which they
inevitably will if you give them enough time.
That’s it. Wait around.
They don't specify what particularly you ought to
do during the waiting around, but it's a safe bet that
watching television or spending your consumer
dollars at the local shopping mall would earn you a
nice chuck on the chin and a hearty pat on the back
from their sponsors.
Their Worst Idea Ever:
The academics and social psychologists who done
thunk up the Top Fuel model of Decision Fatigue in
the first place actually advocate, in scholarly papers
and in front of classrooms filled with impressionable
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young people, that the fastest, bestest way to refill the
tanks of our Top Fuel dragsters is to, well, add more
Top Fuel ourselves.
More specifically, they recommend that we
deliberately spike our glucose levels by taking frequent
breaks from the stultifying boredom of our shitty jobs
to eat sugary candy bars and drink sugary drinks in a
carboholic orgy of Insulin intoxication.
Big Food could not be happier. Fellows and
fellow-ettes with goddamn Ph.D.s are urging the
public to do even MORE of what led America to the
dubious distinction of becoming not just the fattest
nation in the world, but the fattest nation in the
history of the world: consume ever-greater amounts of
sugars and carbs.
Sugars and carbohydrates are now the Official
Foodstuffs of Standard Dogma-ville.
Now you don't need to have read my book the Low
Carb Revolution to recognize that encouraging people
to constantly spike their blood sugar levels with carbs
and sugars in order to contribute more to the
Collective Productivity is pretty much the Worst
Fucking Idea Ever.
Sugar and carbs may taste yummy, but they aren't
the answer to anybody's problems except for Big
Pharma, whose business model rather depends on the
accelerating rise and rise in cases of Diabetes.
Welcome to the United States of Insulin.
Here, take a shovel and start digging a six-foot
deep hole in the ground.
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Oh, and here's a powerbar and a soda. You know,
in case you get fatigued...from digging your own
fucking grave and all.
Our motto since 1984: “Ignorance is power.”
Of course, if by some stroke of justice in th world
their Top Fuel model turns out to be neither True nor
Useful, then we could always put down our shovels
and overcome Decision Fatigue in some different
way.
Perhaps even some good old-fashioned way, like
we always did it before.
In our own inner Game Reality.
That’d be a trip, huh?!
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42: Overcoming Decision Fatigue Once And
For All
We
cannot successfully seduce a woman—or get
much of anything done, really—when we're mired in
the lingering fog of Decision Fatigue. So let's stop
dicking around and figure this thing out. All
politeness aside, Decision Fatigue has nothing to do
with the Top Fuel model that the clowns over at the
Cirque du Dogma are trying to balloon-animal into
existence.
But you already knew that.
Which begs the question...
If Decision Fatigue is a real thing—and it is—and if
it's not caused by the depletion of a pretend container
of finite Cognitive Resources stored within us—and
it's not—then what's going on?!
How the fuck did we all manage to get so lost and
fatigued in the first goddamn place?
Well, it turns out the world is a big, complex place-and becoming more so all the time. There are now so
many games going on at once that figuring out which
one we're supposed to be playing, and which part of
ourselves is best suited to playing it, can by itself tire
us out—and we haven't even done anything yet!
Let's discover how Decision Fatigue can result
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from even the briefest of interactions between two
people. By way of example, we're going to play a very
simple, two-stroke game with someone else.
They'll go first, we'll go second. Can merely two
strokes lead to Decision Fatigue? We’re about to find
out.
Imagine the following scenario going down in the
Real World Gaming Environment—you know, the
tippy top of the iceberg that sticks out above the
water and that everybody else thinks of as everything
there is to know about “reality”...
You're sitting alone at a coffeehouse. Some
random dude enters and approaches your table with
a clipboard in hand and asks if you'd sign his petition.
That's Stroke 1.
You look at the petition. You think about it for a
second and then say, “Not right now.”
That's Stroke 2.
Random dude shrugs and leaves.
Doesn't seem like much just happened, does it?
But something happened. You now feel slightly
exhausted and can’t quite remember what you were
doing before he briefly interrupted you.
Without being consciously aware of it, you've
gone into Decision Fatigue. And it's about to get
worse. A few moments later you leap up and run
outside, desperate to locate the dude with the
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petition.
But it's too late. He's long gone.
Okay, so what the fuck’s going on here?!
We've seen again and again during our adventure
so far that all the important shit in life goes down on
the inside—either in our own internal Game Reality
or in someone else's.
So let's venture behind the scenes and discover
what went down in your Multiverse during the few
seconds of the two-stroke interaction with random
clipboard dude.
How we do anything is how we do everything.
This brief swatch of time may prove highly
illustrative of how we act and react during all the
other seconds of the day—as well as hold the master
key to unlocking the door of Decision Fatigue once
and for all.
Let’s replay the interaction, but this time from the
inside out...
So there you are at the aforediscussed coffeehouse,
sipping on a mocha-chocolata-shores-of-GitcheGumee latte and minding your own damn business.
You happen to be in Down Time, meaning any one
of your crewmembers is free to seize the wheel, and
perhaps just now it's your Little Prince, who's feeling
somewhat self-conscious and sulky since Margaret
said that mean thing to him the other day—and who
cares if “the other day” was back in middle school
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1000 years ago?!--when some random young dude
walks up and thrusts a clipboard in your face saying,
“Will you sign my petition?”
Back inside yourself, your little man doesn't even
know what a petition is, so he doesn't know how to
react or what to say.
Instead he makes a fuss and several other
crewmembers rush topside to find out what's the
racket--your Artist, Lover and Puppy Body among
them. But one of whom want to take the helm and
deal with this petition thing.
Although only a second or so has ticked away on
the outside, it already seems like a minute or more
has elapsed in the Perennial Now of our inner Game
Clock.
By this point a confused crowd of lesser parts and
stowaways (Hullo, mum!) are crowding the top dek
and making a great show of seeming to help with
their incessant stage-murmuring...
Peas n carrots!
Peas n carrots!
Peas n carrots!
Finally one of them wonders loudly, 'What's the
petition for?' and that seems like a capital question to
ask, since knowing the answer to that could
determine which member of the gang is best suited to
playing the game called Signing A Petition.
A quick glance at the petition reveals that it's
about saving penguins.
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Well now you're getting somewhere, because it just
so happens you have a passionate crewmember who
loves animals because you used to be a Vegetarian
back in the day because you learned that girls tend to
like boys who don't senselessly slaughter poor little
cows and puppies or whatever it is those terrible
meat-eaters feast upon and this lasted a couple of
years until it finally dawned on you while girls tend
to like vegetarians, they tend to fuck the carnivores
and so Bacon, here I come!
But even if you don’t play with him anymore, the
part of you that’s a Vegetarian is still hanging around
on your ship--because where the fuck else would he
go?--and now there’s a great pounding on his cabin
door for him to wake up and hurry topside.
Greatly to his surprise—and I just wanna skip to
the punchline by noting this entire door-slamming farce
upon your inner stage is exactly how you react to every
novel occurrence throughout your day and by now you
might already be developing a sense that this
breathless panic within you may...just may...have
something to do with the crippling, mysterious
condition known as Distress Fatigue—the Vegetarian
is summoned from his dark, mushroomy quarters
belowdecks and hustled topside for the first time in
years and instructed to cast his animal-loving gaze at
the petition.
It's love at first sight.
Your Vegetarian is totally down with signing the
petition and donating money to save the penguins—
turns out they're melting or some crap--but there's
just one little problem.
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The part of you that’s a Vegetarian ain’t got no
money.
And he doesn't have any friends who have money.
In fact, he doesn't have any friends at all. He just stays
in his cabin and never gets to come out and play his
game of not eating animals anymore, so how would
he possibly have any friends among the crew?
One of your stowaways suggests he ask the
Accountant—that guy’s got nothing but money—and
so the Vegetarian dutifully seeks out the Accountant
even though he knows the response he's going to get
beforehand. And, sure enough, the serious, besuited
Accountant takes one look at the hippy-dippy-hairdown-to-there Vegetarian with his LuLu Lemon
stripey pants and bandana around his neck and
responds with a big fat “No” on donating any money
to save the parrots.
“Uhhh, penguins.”
“Whatever.”
And so it falls to the poor—literally and
figuratively--Vegetarian to be the one to give the sad
response to the random dude with the petition by
saying, “Not right now”.
Teary-eyed, the Vegetarian ploddingly returns to
his cabin as the other crewmembers and stowaways
also disperse and for a long instant the helm remains
unmanned.
Your Little Prince was the last one at the wheel
before the interruption, but it's not like he has it
“reserved” or anything and if he doesn't step lively
some other part of you may take over, wanting to
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play its own game, and so the Little Prince runs and
hops over your Puppy Body, sprawled out on the
worn wooden deck like he owns the place, and ducks
between the legs of your favorite grandma, who
walks just as slow down here as she did when she
was alive, and just as your Little Prince is about to
reach his goal the part of you playing the game called
your Job remembers that he was supposed to call into
work to find out about the Jenkins deal and he
abruptly grabs the wheel of your ship.
“Uhhh, where's the phone?” your Job part wants
to know. It's a Saturday, so he's been scarce all day
and he definitely wasn't the last one to use the phone
and now your thing's not sitting there on the table
where it's supposed to be and he kinda needs it to
make his call.
So your Job avatar rings the heavy brass bell
mounted to the main mast and shouting something
about a “missing phone” and your crewmembers and
stowaways scramble back topside again—hell, none
of your heavy-rotation, on-call parts had even made it
back to the Ready Room yet—and they start pointing
at one another while angrily denying they were the
last one to use the phone and nobody can figure out
where it is or what happened to it and then, finally,
Grandma perks up...
“I wonder if that nice boy with the petition picked
it up?”
At which everybody freezes.
And does a slow-burn turn towards Grandma.
As the realization that she might well be right
sinks in.
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“Call in the AV Guy!”
The call to Call in the AV Guy gets repeated down
the line until the AV Guy--who records every little
thing we see through the twin periscopes of our eyes-shows up with clangy portable video cart and big
flatscreen monitor and more remote controls than a
sex toy convention.
The AV Guy rewinds the tape and, sure enough,
we can clearly see the petition dude holding the
clipboard directly over your iPhone 5 with one hand,
as he reaches down and pockets it with the other,
then beats a hasty retreat before you knew anything
was asunder.
It was never about saving the possums or
whatever the fucking thing...it was always about
stealing your fucking phone.
“Dammit! Dammit! DAMMIT!” shouts your Job
part, who really needs to make that call and find out
about the Jenkins deal.
Simultaneously, all hell breaks loose yet again as
your crewmembers yell and scramble in every
direction with wails of, “We wuz robbed!”
“Go-go-go!” one of them yells at your Puppy
Body—who now leaps to his feet and propels you out
the front door of the coffeehouse. Your Puppy Body
doesn't have a strategy to deal with the thief if he does
catch him. But that's not his job. His job is only to
deliver your physical body to the young thief—
presumably when that happens another part of you
will take over and beat his ass and retrieve your
phone.
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You did bother to stick with those martial arts
classes long enough to generate a capable Ass-Kicking
crewmember, didn’t you?!
Of course, in the end he won't be needed.
We already know this story doesn't have a happy
ending. The thief has well and truly absconded with
your sweet, uninsured iPhone and you trudge
grumpily back inside.
Total elapsed time: 8 seconds with petition guy, 7
seconds to register that your iPhone was missing and
to run out the door--just another typical 15 seconds
out of your day!
You feel tired and defeated, wrapped in the
clinging fog of Decision Fatigue, certain of only one
thing in the world...
You need a fucking cookie.
Whew!
It’s starting to make a little more sense why people
so willingly sign up to play somebody else's stupid
game for 40+ hours per week for 40+ years of their
life, because at least it's a respite from the bewildering
uncertainty and confusion that lays in wait for them
around every corner in the Hot Chaos of the Moment.
On paper the Now seems like a Kodak moment of
relaxing tranquility and an obligatory photo-op with
your arm around Eckhart Tolle, but in practice every
moment of being a modern day a go-go human is
closer in spirit to dashing at a full sprint across the
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panicked decks of the Titanic as it sinks into the chill
North Atlantic—only without the luxury of a
tuxedoed string quartet playing “Nearer, My God
Thee”!
Now don't for a second imagine all this is just
some fanciful metaphor. This is the reality of how shit
goes down within your Game Reality—and mine and
everybody else's.
This, my friend, IS Decision Fatigue.
And the reason it's fatiguing is because inside most of
us there's absolutely nobody in charge.
Noticeably missing from both their model and
ours (so far) is the presence of our Captain.
O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells!
How much fucking longer we gotta wait for the
next Walt Whitman to come along?!
Life is almost unendurably difficult when our
Captain is asleep. Without the Captain, our
crewmembers are like Keystone Cops after way too
many cups of coffee--scrambling hither and yon in an
18 frames-per-second pratfall of hyperactive skull
fuckery.
Living in the Hot Chaos of the Moment can be
physically, emotionally and sexually draining—and
that's on the best of days.
Sadly, in the overwhelming preponderance of
people, their Captain is fast asleep. Through
absolutely no fault of their own. On the first day of
Kindergarten every sweet little kid is handed a Blue
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Pill and a plastic sippy cup of watered-down apple
juice and told, “You know what to do!”
So they do what they're told.
They swallow the Blue Pill and their lil' Captain
falls asleep before it ever had the chance to fully wake
up in the first place.
Here's a secret that nobody who dwells in the
Bunsen-burnery Lab Reality of academia will ever
stumble upon...
A wide-awake, fully alert Captain is our natural state
and birthright .
Therefore...
Decision Fatigue is an aberration.
It's the inevitable byproduct of a sleeping
Captain—which itself is in aberration.
So here's the secret to overcoming Decision
Fatigue once and for all...
Wake up your Captain and keep him awake.
And, finally, you already know the secret to
waking up your Captain, but since it's scientifically
proven that we learn best by playing the game called
The Spacing Effect—which requires repeated
exposure to a new learnings spaced out over time-let's restate it just once more...
The secret to waking up your Captain is to plan and
execute your next Epic Motherfucking Quest.
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Your troops cannot pull off an Epic Quest without
the direction and guidance of your Captain. Oh, they
can brainstorm about it plenty, and they can talk for
hours with their friends about the swell things they're
going to achieve in life, but without a Captain
overseeing the operation, their ship of dreams will
surely founder and sink to the bottom of the Sea of
Great Ideas.
When your Captain is awake and on his game,
then at every given moment the right part is playing
the right game at the right time.
And this is suuuuuuuuuch
crewmembers, you have no idea.
a
relief
to
your
We all need structure.
We all need to know where we're supposed to be
and what we're supposed to be doing—our parts
most of all. (And since we are our parts, it's really not
even most of all, it's all of all!)
Figuring out who's supposed to be at the helm and
where the great ship is meant to be sailing is a source
of so much (unnecessary) anxiety among your
crew...especially during those times when a part is
already feeling over-extended by its seemingly
endless trudge through the airless void of the SuckZone.
Naturally, just because your Captain is awake
doesn't mean everything's peaches and cream from
here on. You'll still have your sorrows...but now
they'll come as singles spies, not in battalions.
While we're on the topic, here's the obvious secret
to keeping your Captain awake...
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Once your current Epic Quest ships, at once begin
planning and executing your next hijinks!
The Infinite Lust of the masculine never ends.
It's never full.
Never content.
You never stop executing and you never stop shipping.
Nor would you want to.
And don't ever let anybody else convince you
otherwise.
Least of all yourself.
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43: On Avoiding Porn
There's just one final obstacle between us and the 22
Strokes we've been building towards.
Rosie Palma and her Five Sisters.
You thought maybe we weren't going there? Baby,
we're going all the way there! So let's just rip the
Bandaid off real-quick-lickity-split...
I want you to avoid watching porn.
Before you get all freaked out and try to tar and
feather me--with vaseline and tissues, no doubt...and,
Ewwww!--for coming between you and your beloved
porn (again, Ewwww!) just hear me out.
Avoiding porn isn't gonna be easy. It's gonna hurt
a little. But just 'cause something hurts a little doesn't
mean we shouldn't do it.
I’m not going to be the first person who’s told you
this secret, but I sincerely hope I’m among the last...
The less porn you watch, the more sex you'll have.
Abso-fucking-lutely guaranteed!
Over time we grow comfortable feeling a certain
amount of stimuli and no more. This becomes the
Baseline of what we’re willing to experience in our
bodies, our Hedonic Set Point--and we go to great
lengths not to violate it.
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Each of us has a Hedonic Set Point that functions
like a thermostat—cooling us down when we're
overheated, and introducing some spice in our life
when things get too chill.
As we’ve discovered, the Hedonic Set Point in a
woman's body is logarithmically higher than in yours
or mine—hence her ability to feel into her Infinite
Desire when she's given the opportunity. Which, in
practice, isn't all that often—certainly not as often as
most women would like.
But not to worry, we're doing our part to change
that.
Whereas a woman's Hedonic Set Point has a
default setting of a Spinal Tap-ish 11, ours hovers
around a 2 or 3, at best.
A man can get filled up quickly on a rather slight
amount of stimulation--just like those people who get
gastric bypass surgery and now their stomach’s
merely a thumbnail-sized pouch and they can barely
eat more than a few bites of anything before feeling
stuffed. When that happens they naturally lose their
desire to eat any more until they're done digesting
and processing those two or three bites they just ate.
And that's exactly what porn—online or off—does
to our already meager desire.
A single ten to twenty minute wankathon can
completely satiate our sexual appetite and hold us
over for the next day or three.
Locking ourselves in our room to jack off to porn
is no different than locking up a lion in a cage and
tossing it a slab of meat every afternoon.
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Eventually both man and lion will lose their desire to
hunt.
The gushing firehose of free and instantly
accessible online porn has derailed the sex lives of an
entire generation of men by suppressing our hunger.
And when we lose our hunger, we lose our desire to
hunt and, ultimately, we lose touch with our Infinite
Lust--the super-charged, super-conducting, superplasma-fied engine that drives us to our greatness.
Do you want to build an empire, earn a fortune
and seduce the hottest women from around the
globe? Or do you want to hide behind your computer
and watch lesser men than you fuck women you'll
never get to meet?
Seriously, which do you want?
Straight up, my friend, the less time you spend
watching other dudes having sex the more you will
have sex.
That's just the way it works.
Consider doing a 30-Day Challenge: going for a
whole month without spanking it to porn to discover
how the landscape of your sexual expression can
transform itself. Should you decide to play this
game—and I sincerely hope you do--then within a
day or so into it you'll begin feeling those old, familiar
uncomfortable sensations in your body.
Although they'll be centered deep in your loins,
they may feel something like hunger pangs. And so
they are.
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Only it's your sexual hunger, stirring and
awakening within you.
If your Lover has been asleep, this is his
opportunity to wake and start singing, “Feed me,
Seymour!”
By the time you reach the fourth or so day of your
avoid-a-porn-athon, you might be thoroughly
overwhelmed by the physical sensations coursing
through you--begging you for a sweet release from
their pent-up misery.
As with our lunch-skipping, daytime-fasting
game, when that happens, don't do anything. Don't
judge the distress you feel in your body or attempt to
make it try to go away.
The Path of Greater Sensation is the red pill that
finally wakes you up--pulling your Lover from the
safety of his purchase in the Multiverse and out into
the visceral excitement of the Universe as made
manifest in your physical body.
Choosing to wake up brings the magic, my man.
The motherfucking magic.
And a magical you is an unstoppable you—which
is what we've been playing for all along!
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CONGRATU-FUCKING-LATIONS—YOU HAVE
CONQUERED LEVEL III!
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Invite Yourself To The Party!
Hurry,
we’ve got no time to lose--the Party's already
started!
No matter where you are in the world, no matter what
day of the week or time of night, there's a Party happening
right this second!
An oh-so-sexy Party. With naughty ladies and wicked
times and streamers. A Party with everything you can
imagine—and quite a lot you cannot.
There's just one little problem: you're not invited.
Let that sink in for a moment.
There's an fantastical Party going down somewhere-everywhere--even as you read these words.
But you are not invited.
Worse still, you are never going to be invited.
Like, ever.
Til kingdom come, the fat lady sings, the cows come
home—it don't matter. Your invitation's not in the mail.
And it ain't coming via text, smoke signal or even
semaphore...just to dash your hopes entirely.
Are you ready for what may be the biggest secret of
them all? Here it is on a silver platter...
Just because you haven't been invited to the Party
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doesn't mean you're not welcome.
Nobody gets invited to the Party.
No man, that is.
The only way for a man to attend the Party-in-progress
is to invite his motherfucking self.
You don’t have to be good enough, deserving enough,
rich enough, hot enough or whatever enough to attend the
freaky Party. No matter who or what you are, if you’ll just
give yourself permission to attend the sexy Party, then
not only can you join in the fun, but you'll be welcomed
with open arms by all the other Partygoers.
They'll be delighted that you rank among the few who
figured out how the Party works.
The uninhibited expression of your sexuality is the
Party. It's the ultimate Infinite Game--a 24-hour, guilt-free
theme park of hot and cold running fantasies!
Seduction is about first giving yourself permission to
join the Party...and then masterfully inviting a beautiful
woman to join you there.
If you don't invite her to the Party, another man will.
If you don't invite yourself to the Party, nobody else
will.
If you don't ever go to the Party, nobody will notice or
care.
Every single step that you and I will take on the
remainder of our journey together is about showing you
how to arrive at the Party in motherfuckin' style.
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HOLY SHIT—YOU'VE ARRIVED
at LEVEL IV!
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LEVEL IV
HOW TO WIN AT THE GAME of
SEDUCTION...WITHOUT REALLY
TRYING
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Welcome to The 22 Strokes
Dude, you made it to Level IV!
If it feels like we've been through a lot, it's because
we have. I'm seriously proud of you for doing
everything it took to get here.
To make it even more worth your while, you've
earned your bad self another 15,000 points, bringing
your new total to a mind-blowing 42,000.
Just ahead you'll find the 22 Strokes—the payoff
for all the hard work you've put in so far. Each stroke
builds upon the one before it and progresses towards
the goal of seducing a woman into your bed.
If I were teaching you to juggle—and I'd love the
opportunity to teach you to juggle...I could have you
up and running in fifteen minutes flat!--first we'd
start with one ball. You'd learn how to throw that ball
from one hand to the other. That's the first stroke in
the game of learning to juggle.
Once you had that down, then we'd move to the
second stroke, which requires you to make two
throws...tossing one ball from your right hand to your
left and then, after the merest of pauses (and while
the first ball is still in the air), tossing the ball in your
left hand over to your right in such a way that the two
don't collide in midair.
Then we add a third stroke, necessitating three
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throws, and so on until we reach five consecutive
throws, by which point you're actually juggling.
Likewise, although you'll be presented with all 22
Strokes in one fell swoop, your best strategy for
incorporating them into your seductions will be to get
to a point of sucking less with each new stroke before
jumping back into full-blown suckage with the next
one and so on.
By the way, slugger, if you've skipped here from
somewhere earlier in our journey because you
wanted to hurry up and ride your glittery, little
unicorn straight to the pot of gold at the end of the
rainbow, I should probably point out you're not going
to understand one-tenth of the shit we're talking
about.
Everything in Level IV is built on the foundations
of our unique model of the world and our specific
vocabulary for describing it that we explored in such
depth through the first three levels of our game. So if
you skipped ahead, you missed learning that the only
way not to suck at playing a game is to suck at it until
you suck less.
In which case...
You probably still suck.
Counterclockwise, if you’ve been on board all
along and have taken every motherfucking step of
this journey right beside me, then you’ve been slowly
but surely alchemizing yourself into the superhero
you were born to become.
And that means it’s payoff time, baby!
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The Hot Chaos of The Moment
The
game of Seduction--like every other game ever
invented--is played in the Now.
Not tomorrow. Not next week. Right the fuck
now.
The Future literally does not exist in a woman's
internal Game Reality. The Game Clock is always set
at the never dull, often panicky, always krazy kakes
Now that we refer to as the Hot Chaos of the
Moment.
To further celebrate reaching Level IV, I want to
share another secret with you. You'll want to ignore
this secret. Forget it, skip it, pretend it doesn't exist,
act like it's not true for you.
That's fine. You're the Boss of you, now and
always. You know better.
Okay, you know what?!
Fuck that!
You don't know better! Not about this. I'm about to
share with you a concept that, by itself, can increase
the amount of fucking in your life by a billion percent.
That's billion with a “z”!
So just pay attention and seduce women like I tell
you and everybody will be happier. Most especially
the women whom you previously left disappointed
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and frustrated in the past because you omitted this
one critical step and therefore failed to seduce them
into your bed.
Never lose sight of the universal truth that women
want to be fucked far more than you want to fuck
them. Your desire to penetrate a woman may reach to
the moon, while her desire to be penetrated reaches to
the stars and beyond.
So with that ridiculously over-inflated preamble,
here's this monumental new secret in all its notparticularly-monumental-sounding glory...
A woman will only fuck you now.
That's it.
That's the whole secret.
Hardly seems worth the wait, huh?!
But it's everything.
A woman will only fuck you now. She won't fuck
you tomorrow or at any other imaginary point in the
future.
It's right now...or never.
Which means, my friend, that you never stop a
seduction half-way through. You don't go through 11
of the strokes with a woman and then make a “date”
with her to finish up the remaining 11 on Tuesday
evening at 7:45.
There's no Lay Away in seduction.
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That's not how seduction works...and that's for
goddamn sure not how women work.
Do the 22 Strokes one after another without
stopping until the very end. Not split up over two
days or two weeks or any other coupling of timeunits.
Any time you stop short of getting naked in bed
with a woman, then you must start all the way over
again at the beginning the next time you see her.
Every seduction begins from scratch.
This is true even with your existing lovers.
As I say, you're not going to want to do this. When
the sensation and Decision Fatigue mount during a
seduction, you'll want to check out and get out.
I used to be the worst guy in the world about
ejecting when things were still going well. I'd reach
my limit of sensation and so make “plans” to see her
sometime “later”, when I was lemon-freshened
enough to jump back into fracas.
Dude, there's no motherfucking “plans”.
Closer don't make plans.
Closers close.
Circle this one in permanent marker on your
Kindle, baby...
Pussy is for closers.
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In my lilly-livered past, I'd often get so worked up
and trembly in my body at the possibility—the
distant, unimaginable possibility—that a woman
would actually want to have sex with me that I'd
regularly slam on the brakes even when things were
going well and would stupidly try to make
arrangements to get together again “some day soon”.
Ugh, seriously, I'd bring a perfectly good
seduction to a dead stop and ask for a woman's
fucking telephone number so I could call or text her
later. (Bonus Tip #247: Never ask for a woman’s
phone number unless you have a desire to fuck her
again.) Then I'd give her a big hug, and say, “Can't
wait to see you soon! It's gonna be awesome!”
On the way home I'd be soooooo super-proud of
myself. What a stud, I thought--I got some girl's
digits! I'd barely be able to sleep that night out of the
excitement that I would see her the next....whenever.
And although I didn't have possess any kind of
strategy for making it happen I just knew that
somehow we'd end up in bed together.
Can you imagine how this story usually ended?
Can you fucking guess how many women I connected
with at a later date and actually had sex with?!
If you guessed “few to none”, then you, sir, are a
goddamn genius--and here’s another 3000 points to
prove it, bringing you to forty-five-motherfuckin’thousand.
I could seriously cry when I recall some of the
spectacular babes I caught and idiotically threw back
because I didn't seduce them all the way into my bed,
but instead tried to play the lower-sensation Long
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Game of spreading things out over time.
Here's another secret to put in your crack pipe...
The Long Game is your worst enemy.
It's almost infinitely easier to meet a woman,
march through the 22 Strokes with her, and fuck her
exactly the way she wants and needs in a single
afternoon or evening, than it is to space the ride out
over days or longer.
And here’s why...
Waiting leads to thinking.
And thinking is the opposite of what you want a
woman to be doing...and, frankly, the exact opposite
of what she wants to be doing.
She already thinks too much in her life, her career,
her everything.
You're her opportunity to think a little less for a
little while.
Besides, she can't fuck you with her brain, she can
only fuck you with her body--so what the fuck is
there for her to fucking think about in any fucking
case?!
But--you may be thinking furiously--doesn't a
woman need to “get to know you” first? Doesn't she
require an investigative discovery process worthy of
Erin Brockovich that stretches out over weeks before
she'll be willing to play the game called Fucking?
In a word...
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NO.
The utterly fascinating—I'm sure!--history of your
entire life does not matter to a woman. Here's a mindboggling secret that's STILL sinking in for me...
Not only does a woman not need to know everything
about you before tapping into her Infinite Desire with you,
she doesn't even necessarily have to like you.
From the reverse angle...
A woman will fuck you even if she doesn't like you.
I am not remotely suggesting you should ever be a
dick to a woman—or to any-fucking-body--I'm just
pointing out that you can be as charming as Cary
Grant and Clark Gable combined, and you'll still find
plenty of women who will not like your green eggs
and ham.
Who would not like them here or there.
Who would not like them anywhere.
Yet they'll still fuck you.
But only right now.
Not tomorrow. Because whether a woman likes
you or not, she will never fuck you tomorrow, she
will only fuck you now.
So there's nothing to wait for, my friend. There's
nothing to gain and everything to lose by playing the
Long Game. If you meet a woman and feel the
sparkity-spark of connection between the two of you,
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seduce her then and there all the way into your bed.
That's why it's called the Hot Chaos of the
Moment—because it's going down right the fuck
now!
The more you give yourself permission to let go of
the Discovery Process every time you meet a new
women, the sooner you can get to the good bits. And-let's just keep being honest with one another, shall
we?—the bitter truth is that the less she knows about
you the better.
Unless she's a Venture Capitalist doing due
diligence before making an angel investment in your
start-up, the scintillating minutiae of your life aren't
exactly making her pussy wet.
Even knowing your name is pretty fucking optional.
Quite often the first thing I'll playfully say to a
woman after we've fucked is, “You're such a naughty
girl—you just had sex with me and you don't even
know my last name!”
And the funny part? About half the time I can see
in their eyes that they're thinking, 'Last name, shit—
what the hell's his first name?!'
Here’s another secret that the dating and
relationship pundits conspicuously forgot to include
in their syllabi...
Seduction is less about YOU than it is about a woman
finding a safe opportunity where she can feel into HER
Infinite Desire.
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Which means—and I hate to be the one to break
this to you, because I'm sure you are a damn fine man
and you deserve to win a woman over on your own
merits--that in the end...
You are interchangeable.
Just as with the game of Relationship, playing the
game of Seduction is more compelling to us and to a
woman than who we play it with.
The really fucking Good News about this is that
now you can finally get over yourself when it comes to
approaching and seducing women. You are not too
old, too ugly or too anything to give a woman what
she wants and needs. If you feel the Tesla spark of
connection and become Sexually Entangled with a
woman, then you're her “type”, end of story.
And that's when you should carpe the fucking
diem.
The ultimate goal of a seduction is to plug a
woman safely into her Infinite Desire and take that
wild ride with her while staying completely present
and fully connected.
And if you can learn to accomplish this on a
consistent basis, my friend, then you will be greatly
cherished by the beautiful women fortunate enough
to be seduced by you.
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Three Playing Fields, Two Players, One Game
According
to the Inner Role-Playing Model of the
Human Experience everything is a game...and every
game is played both on the inside, in our Game
Reality, as well as on the outside, in Actual Reality.
Of course, that's just for single-player diversions
such as learning to play mathematics or double-belled
euphonium.
Seduction is necessarily a two-player game. As such,
it goes down on three (count 'em, 3!) separate playing
fields at once...and no wonder most poor sods get so
goddamn confused they don't even know where to
start when it comes to seducing a woman!
The three game boards of seduction (or any other
two-player game) are:
Your Multiverse: in this case inhabited by your
Boarding Party of Captain, Little Prince and Lover
aboard your great ship, sometimes supported by your
other crewmembers and often heckled by your trashtalking stowaways.
The Universe: your physical bodies, as well as the
words and movements of you and the woman you're
playing with in your shared reality, including all the
attendant physical sensations on both sides.
Her Multiverse: our primary playing field, where
her Welcoming Party of Captain (if awake), Alice,
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Naughty Girl, Puppy Body and Bodyguard await,
along with her own semi-dysfunctional inner gang
populating the decks of her ship.
Now before you get all out of breath and Decision
Fatigue-y by these overlapping realities, I want to
reassure you I'll be keeping track of the 3-ring circus
of seduction for you every step of the way as we
progress through the strokes ahead--directing your
attention to the appropriate playing field at the
appropriate beat during each stroke, so you'll always
know precisely where to focus your energies.
The only way to improve upon that sweet offer is
for me to actually show up and seduce a woman for
you, and then turn her over to you for the fucking.
But then why the hell would I do that?!
Of course, you and I could always fuck her
together.
I'm that crazy.
And I know she's that crazy.
The only question is, are you?!
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Stroke 1: Lions Pounce!
Every seduction starts with a Hunt.
Whether your hunting grounds is a dance floor, a
bookstore or a topless beach in Bulgaria, in every case
you want to “summon” your Lion for the hunt.
To do that, take a few moments to go deep within,
down to the most barbaric, sexual part of yourself.
Rouse your Lion from his slumbers. Wrestle with
him. Slap him on the snout a couple of times to get
him a riled up.
You want your Lion eager to hunt.
If you initially suck at imagining yourself going
inside to do this, instead conjure up the most explicit
sexual fantasies and then feel your brutish savagery
coursing roughly through your veins...that'll get your
Lion’s attention.
As your Beast stirs, allow your Animal Magnetism
to expand around you like a sphere. Feel the Infinite
Lust radiating from your skin. When you are totally
turned on, your Lion cannot help but be present.
And when your Lion is present, women will
notice. From across the room. From across the city.
Women will usually give no indication whatsoever
of feeling the panting presence of your Lion, but that's
only because they have enough social intelligence to
keep their awareness hidden. Believe me, if your
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ravenous Lion is at the helm of your ship, every
woman who comes across your horizons will feel it.
Maintain this bestial Turn On as you roam the
museums and airplane terminals and capitals of the
globe.
Connect with the primitive emotions and cravings
of this shaggy, hungry Beast within. Let its horrific
yearnings inflame your passions. Feel your very body
transforming into Lion as you spy one tasty morsel
after another on your hunt.
Every time you glimpse a gazelle worth chasing
down, you’ll instinctively want to give yourself a
passing or a failing grade on the Narcissus Test—
which effectively asks, “Am I good enough to get
her?”
The answer every time is: YES!
You are “good enough” to seduce ANY availableish woman of adult age...although it may take you a
good many more hours of trudging across the desert
of the Suck-Zone until your opinion of you is as high
as my opinion of you.
Just keep sucking 'til you suck less!
Then comes the moment when you turn a corner
and glimpse a woman you simply must have...
The classy proprietress of the new art gallery
down the street.
The 6'3” blonde striding smilingly through the
train station in Stockholm.
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The dreadlocked Canadian backpacker at an Old
Town coffeehouse in Sacramento.
The fit, fortyish MILF in a bikini joyfully sculpting
a godawful, sagging sand castle on the beach in South
Padre Island, Texas.
The perfectly put-together entrepreneur and
millionaire with chocolate skin and a balcony you
could do Shakespeare off of that you met at weekendlong Tony Robbin's seminar.
Mmmmmmm, mouth-watering, one and all!
And now comes the time where you actually
approach her. Remember, up until this moment you
ARE the Lion.
That part of you is at the wheel of your ship and so
that is literally “who” you are at this instant.
And when a Lion spots a gazelle separated from
the herd, what does he do?
He pounces.
That's what a Lion does. That's all he does.
A Lion does NOT...
Think.
Estimate his chances of actually subduing any
particular gazelle.
Pretend to send a text message while circling
around the gazelle as he gets the “lay of the land”.
Notice or care about the rising sensation in his
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body. (Of COURSE he has increased sensation in his
body, he's about to kill and eat a fucking gazelle—he
damn well better be excited!)
A Lion does none of these things and neither will
you. When you spy a woman you want to play the
game of Seduction with, there's only one course of
action...
Pounce.
Approaching a woman with your Lion at the helm
means coming in a little hot, as the flyboys are wont
to say. Which sets you up for instant success or
instant failure—both of which are imminently
desirable outcomes.
After all, if a seduction is destined to fail, the
sooner you know it, the better.
The seismic collision between your masculine and
her feminine forces is your best shot at becoming
Sexually Entangled and thus generating an allimportant Seduction Singularity—which, again,
happens right away-ish or never.
A word of warning...
Coming in a little hot with your Lion at the helm
will scare off more than a few ladies.
Let them go.
These are most definitely not the droids you're
looking for.
It's the dames who feel your Lion, who ratchet up
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to Defcon 3 in response, but who still don't run away-those are the ones you want to play this infinite and
infinitely delightful game with.
Another word of warning...
A powerful show of your masculine energy will
scare the holy shit out of some gals. They may
respond by instantly and intently disliking you.
That's fine. Don't apologize or try to fix their upset.
Whether they like it or not—whether they like you
or not--the Infinite Lust of the masculine also turns
them the fuck on.
Again, just because a woman doesn't like you
doesn't mean she won't fuck you.
The best way to approach a woman is fully
possessed by your Lion.
And then...
At the very last second...
Right as you walk up to her...
You pull the ol' switcheroo...
Get all Siegfried & Roy and make your Lion
disappear.
In Actual Reality that means coming in like a
house afire...and then as you step into her territory,
the fire is suddenly, mysteriously doused.
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In Your Multiverse:
Just as your Lion is inches away from devouring
this woman in one enormous gulp, your Captain
forcibly grabs it by the scruff and roughishly hauls it
belowdecks, ignoring the Lion's roars and piercing
claws as he locks it back in its heavy cage. Rushing
topside, your Captain takes at the wheel.
With practiced hand—once you suck less at doing
this, that is—he smartly brings your great ship
alongside hers, and grappling hooks are thrown to
secure the brace of ships together as your Little Prince
and Lover look on.
Meanwhile in her Multiverse:
Deep within her ship stands the iron cage in which
her own Beast remains locked away, deliberately cut
off from the world....sleeping...deeply sleeping. Then
comes the slightest of stirs in the dimly lit hold as a
thick smell descends through the ship--a musk of wet
fur and hot panting breath and the male sex.
The cloying and wrenching scent wraps around
the cage of the sleeping Tigress. The nostrils of the
Tigress flair at the sweet waft of its greatest
playmate...the loathed stench of its worst enemy.
The recognition of its once and future foe, the
Lion, is immediate. With a startle of breath and acid
snarl, the Tigress's eyes snap open.
Could Playtime be imminent?!
According to the existential Game Clock of your
mutual Game Realities, this entire primal, internal
frenzy has occupied minutes or more, yet that
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translates to a second or less on the outside.
Back in The Universe:
You find yourself face to face with a lovely and
slightly startled creature who's wondering what in
the hell just happened.
And what's about to happen next.
The game is now well and truly begun.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
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THE SPACE BETWEEN THE WORDS
“What do I say to a woman?”
“How can I initiate a conversation?”
“What should we talk about at the beginning?”
Legit questions, all. And I'm about to offer you
some strokes that'll break the ice with any woman in
any setting. Before I do, however, I want to share a
secret inspired by modern composer Arnold
Schoenberg's famous pronouncement that “Music
isn't the notes, it's the space between the notes”...
Seduction isn't about the words...it's about the space
between the words.
There are no magic words or phrases in seduction,
and if anybody tells you otherwise then they're just
big stinkyheads who don't know stuff.
The words don’t matter.
And as you gain experience points and suck less at
playing this game, you will find yourself using fewer
and fewer of them...until eventually you can reach the
point where you barely need any words at all.
But you're not quite there yet, so over the next
three strokes I'll offer you a framework to help launch
you into a conversation with a woman you’ve just
met.
This support structure was designed for those
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dudes (of which I am most definitely one) who are
obsessed by strategy--who need to know how one
thing leads to another...and when...and sometimes
why, but not necessarily.
The conversational gambits (howz that for a
highfalutin turn of phrase...I daresay it ought to be
pronounced in the haughty, clenched-jawed voice of
Thurston Howell, III...“conversational gambits”!) of
the strokes that follow will deliver you nicely to the
first of our four Checkpoints in this brand-new model
of Seduction.
That said...
If you have a different take on how to open a
conversation with a woman, by all means use yours.
Approaching a strange woman (like there’s any
other type!) and getting into conversation with her is
a monkeyshine that quite a few Pick Up Artists and
Artist-ettes excel at--and if their diddly-do-babs work
for you, do that.
Mine is intended solely for those men who don't
yet have a solid strategy for crossing the void of
Stroke Zero and becoming Sexually Entangled with a
woman.
Although the South Col Route used by Sir
Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay to ascend Mt.
Everest remains the most popular and photographed
path to this very day, there are at least fourteen other
ways to successfully arrive at the summit.
(Descending the Everest is whole 'nother game. Far
more climbers lose their lives coming back down than
going up—often through sheer Decision Fatigue that
leads them to make small, yet critical, errors in
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judgment that cost them their lives.)
Whether advancing along my route or some other,
your Captain will do all the climbing in the early
going—keeping the conversation crisp and alive, but
without any of bawdy-talk from your Lover.
You generally don't want to introduce any
sexuality into the tender young bamboo shoot of your
seduction until you've reached Checkpoint #3,
whereupon you explicitly invite her Naughty Girl out
to play and discover that the little Bamboo Shoot That
Could is suddenly waist-high and hard as...well,
something that's, like, totally hard...I can't really think
of anything right now--and anyway it's high time you
pulled some weight around here and thought up a
damn simile or two of your own for a change, don't
ya think?!
While your Captain is bold and naturally
possessed of a confidence bordering on arrogance,
he's not overtly lecherous—and that's precisely why
you want him at the wheel in the beginning rather
than the puckishly sex-obsessed rake that is your
Lover.
And if you ever do come in like a typical jack-ass-all drunkishly leading with their Lover, dropping
memorized pick-up lines and quipping about “gettin'
lucky” tonight--then any woman worth seducing will
launch you out the other side faster than a jetpowered trebuchet!
So if your Captain has a completely different set of
words he prefers saying to a dame he's just met,
permit him say those words instead—and then meet
us back at Checkpoint #1 just down the line, deal?!
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The rest of you gentlemen, shoulder your packs
and let's scale this damn mountain!
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Stroke 2: Say “Hello!”
Soooooooooo,
there you are, standing before a
woman you've just approached–your Lion having
been yanked away at the very last second, leaving
your intrepid Captain at the helm--and facing the
question that's plagued man since the dawn of time...
What the fuck do you say to a woman you don't know?!
Someway, somehow, if we are to seduce her we
must first make it across the vast--quite possibly
uncrossable--void of Stroke Zero.
I like saying, “Hello!”
Now because it's just one lonely, little word, you
may feel honeyed into sweetening the pot by adding
still more words, turning that lone word into a treacly
phrase and then a sugary sentence and pretty soon
you're reciting the Gettysburg Fucking Address when
you first meet a woman--even as the needle on her
Creep-ometer swings all the way over to “Extra
Creepy” and she's backing away like you're a door-todoor Encyclopedia Salesman even though I'm pretty
sure they don't have those anymore because why the
fuck would they?
So, say just the one word...
“Hello!”
It's our first Stroke and it's the only opener you'll
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ever need.
Say “Hello!”, then do nothing more, say nothing
else.
Smile genuinely and give her your full attention,
but don't otherwise speak. If she hesitates in
responding, the sensations in your body will shoot
through the roof and you'll want to dissipate them by
jumping in and saying a bunch of other shit.
Reciting the Gettysburg Fucking Address kind of
shit.
Don't.
Now it’s on her.
Eventually, after the longest second or two of your
life, she'll respond with some variation of, “Hello!”
That may not seem like much, my friend, but “Hello!”
is a start.
And that's more than we had before.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
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Stroke 3: Make A Situational Remark
The
next thing you say to a woman ought to be a
situational remark. Since it necessarily depends on the
situation you find yourself in, you cannot predict in
advance what it will be, nor would you want to.
Seduction is an exercise in getting present and staying
present, from start to finish and, ultimately, head to toe.
A situational remark can be an innocuous
statement about the weather, the long line you're both
stuck in or the view from the observation deck (“If
you jump, I'm coming after you!”).
Whenever possible—and it's always possible, once
you learn to pay more attention--you can remark
upon some aspect of her wardrobe or accessories.
It's as simple as, “Wow, what amazing shoes!” (Or
purse, earrings, etc.)
Women take great pride in discovering the unique
elements that contribute to their overall style—and
are not accustomed to straight men (or other women
except for their pretend friends), ever noticing or
remarking upon them.
Almost any kind of acknowledgement about your
shared situation or her wardrobe will work here.
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Concurrently, there are a few cans of worms you
might not want to open with...conversational
chicanery that you should avoid like the proverbial
Ten Plagues of Egypt from the Old Testament--up to
and including the Plague of Frogs, the Plague of Boils
and the dire-sounding Plague of Pestilence, whatever
that fuck that shit was.
Avoid...
Making a compliment about her body or physical
appearance--here or anywhere during the entire seduction,
duh!
Posing a question of any kind.
Asking a question right up front means requiring a
woman to think about how to respond, which means
figuring out which side of her knows how to answer
that question. Even a simple request such as, “Donde
esta el bano?” can hurl a woman into a downward
spiral leading to Decision Fatigue, which is not the
direction we want her going!
Asking what she does for a living.
For one, it's a question. For another, in order to
answer you she'll have to summon the job part of her.
That means one of the interny cabin girls on board her
ship has to be dispatched to find the job crewmember
and rouse her and get her all dressed in her business
attire and drag her topside and put her behind the
wheel to respond to your interrogations...and this is
unquestionably the last thing in the world the woman
you are talking to wants right now.
She's out socializing or having fun or on the way
to get her nails did, and she will resist any attempts to
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bring that side of her out—often quite vocally; I've
had women practically snarl at me when I've slipped
up and posed the “So whatdya do for a living?”
question.
Additionally, some women particularly resent
being drawn into the game of What's My Line because
men so often use it as a trap to establish their own
higher value or supposed superiority over a woman.
The perfect time to chat with a woman about what
she does for a living is after you've fucked her. You
want to save some of the joys of Mutual Discovery for
later, right?!
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
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Stroke 4: Remain Standing
If
the environment you find yourself in allows it,
always seduce a woman from a standing position.
And remain standing the entire time.
Standing keeps her tumesced and a little offguard...and makes you more alert. It also happens to
be our natural state, allowing the many and complex
energy streams within us to flow more easily from
one part of the system to another--that is, if you
embrace any of that irrational, woo-woo, tree-huggin’,
Chinese meridian, Indian chakra, Japanese ki,
Hawaiian Ho’oponopono crap like me and about five
billion friends of mine believe in.
Sitting down dissipates the charge in your bodies,
which we don't want...while standing increases your
mutual sensation, which is always worth playing for.
As well, standing gives you more options to
include your whole body in your communications
with her. It provides you with space to maneuver—
allowing you the flexibility to bounce from one side of
her to another, to move closer or further away, and to
turn your seduction into a 3D interactive performance
art piece revolving around her.
Standing for any length of time is also a sweet callback to something each of us has done many times in
the past when we made a hot new friend standing
around an open-pit fire at a party or loitering in the
gym parking lot for two hours chatting up some chick
from spin class or the like.
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Some of the most memorable conversations of our life
take place while we’re standing up.
Coincidence?
Only if you believe in that kinda thing.
Finally, it's a scientifically proven fact that
standing up makes you funnier.
They're called Stand-Up Comics for a reason, you
know?! Nobody would pay to see a motherfucking
Sit-Down Comic.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
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Stroke 5: Praise Her Look/Energy
You've broken the ice by saying “Hello!” and you've
forged a casual connection by remarking about the
situation or such.
Nice job, by the way!
There used to be a time when you wouldn't say
anything to an attractive woman, when you'd stare at
her with so much intensity that your eyes coulda
bored holes straight through her—but you still
couldn't bring yourself to open your mouth and utter
a peep. Instead you silently begged Odin and the
lesser gods of Valhalla that she would be the one to
risk leaping across Stroke Zero—preferably by
making a first move drawn straight from the gummy
pages of Penthouse Forum.
How'd that work out for you?
Of course it's easier not to talk to a beautiful
woman than it is to talk to her. Of course it's going to
cause you some pain and suffering in your body,
mind and soul to approach a living, breathing woman
and talk to her despite wanting more than anything to
run the other way.
Our unwillingness to suffer just a little is holding
us back. Any jackass can hoist a fully loaded barbell
up and down a few times and suffer greatly for all of
twenty seconds. Only a great man can sit in a little
suffering for hours and years in order to change
himself and change the world.
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My friend, here's a secret with the potential to lead
you to that Big Breakthrough you so fervently
desire...
It's your willingness to stay in the Little Suffering for a
long time that transforms you into your Greatness.
The Big Breakthroughs don't usually come riding
in on a thunderclap with a cracklish bolt of lightening
that gets all the pain over with at once...but more
commonly bubble up from the Little Suffering of
slowly cooking ourselves in the Crock-Pot of Life.
So you’re already off to a fantastic start with this
woman by saying hello and adding some kind of
innocuous remark–“I’m pretty sure they hung that
Picasso painting upside down”.
Just like that, you’ve crossed Stroke Zero. Now
let’s level up by making a comment about her Look.
This is a foreign concept for most men, since we don't
typically have a Look...or even know what one is.
Dudes are content to throw on the least-smelly
clothes from their bedroom floor and head out the
door. Hell, Stanley Kubrick, the second-best
filmmaker of all time, famously owned only two pairs
of pants and two shirts. He'd wear the one set of
pants and shirt for days and days until one of his
assistant directors worked up the nerve to encourage
him to change clothes, upon which Kubrick would
simply put on the other pants and shirt, and continue
with the business at hand.
Conversely, most woman have a “brand” she
pimps out every time she ventures into the RealWorld Gaming Environment--a unique Look that
distinguishes her from all the other Bettys out there.
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Not every woman does this. But most. As Helena
Rubinstein summed it up, “There are no ugly women,
only lazy ones.”
A woman's Look isn't any single element of her
wardrobe, appearance or accessories, but rather the
overall statement all that stuff makes.
So the third thing--after “Hello!” and a situational
comment—you can tell a woman is, “I look your
Look.”
But don't stop there.
Explain why you like her Look, and, even more
intriguingly to her, explain what her Look says about
her.
This will light a woman up if for no other reason
than she doesn't get this kind of feedback...ever. Even
her gay friends aren’t running around explaining her
own Look to her.
Still we all appreciate positive feedback when it
comes.
Tell a woman, “I like your Look”--and then
quickly add, “It says...”
Now it doesn't MATTER what you put next.
Again, the very fact that you're offering her your
observations about the impact of her Look is a topic of
the greatest fascination to her. No other men, and
precious few women, will usually give her a single
upstroke about the Look she's projecting. So, besides
being an golden opportunity to compliment a woman
on something other than her physical body, the sheer
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novelty of discussing her Look provides a launching
pad that neatly sets up the next stage of your
interaction.
Plus, your comments immediately give you the
luxury of being funny, playful and a bit cheeky with
her.
Last year I met a 21 year-old graffiti artist wearing
fishnet hose under cut-off jean shorts, with bright
pink hair and a nose ring, and I told her, “I like your
Look. It says, 'If you want to play with me, you better
be prepared to get messy!'”
She followed me around like a puppy for the next
three days.
Or you can tell a woman...
“I like your look. It says, 'If the Zombie
Apocalypse happens today, you're ready to run!'”
I often use my interpretation of a woman's Look as
an opportunity to praise some aspect of her
personality that I want to encourage....
“I like your look. It says, 'If you wanna Go, I'll
Go—but I'm Going all the way!'”
The more outrageous your (always positive, fo
sho!) critique of her Look, the better.
“I like your Look. It says...'You just expected to
spend a holiday weekend on our Planet and then you
got stuck here and now Alien Overlord Zorg won't
return your texts!'”
By the way, women consider any reference to them
as unique beings from another planet who are just
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visiting Earth to be high praise, indeed!
It doesn't matter if your statement about a
woman's Look makes any sense to you, she will
understand and appreciate it.
And if you're not as clever as me—because, let’s
face it, who is?!--you can always tell her something
simple such as, “I like your Look. It says, 'I get what I
want.'”
If she doesn't have much of a Look going on—say
she's wearing a plain white bikini at the beach or
walking home in her work uniform--you can make
the exact same kinds of statements, but substitute
“Energy” for “Look”.
Hence...
“I like your Energy. It says, 'If a Great White Shark
attacks us, you're not concerned about out-swimming
the shark, you just care about out-swimming me!'”
As with her Look, a woman will know exactly
what you're talking about if you compliment her
Energy. Girls already speak girl-speak.
Or you might try...
“I like your Energy. It says, 'Back on my Home
Planet, I'm an overweight, middle-age man but they
gave me this crazy body suit to wear while I'm here
and I'm still not sure exactly how it works.'”
Again, work that fucking Alien Angle whenever
possible...and pretend to be an Alien along with her
as the two of you plot to overthrow the world and
shit.
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RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
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Stroke 6: Chitty Chat
Now
that we've said, “Hello!”, made a situational
comment and remarked cleverly-ish upon her
Look/Energy, let's accelerate into the first corner of
our young conversation by doing a little Chitty
Chat—with a big emphasis on little.
Back when I still sucked at seduction so badly that
I whimpered myself to sleep every night, Chitty Chat
represented the furthest reaches of my engagement
with a woman.
I'd get into Chitty Chat with some chick and
instead of emerging on the other side three to five
minutes later, I'd loop back around on some new and
different topic, again and again until 30 minutes had
passed, 90 minutes had passed--and since the
Feminine is infinitely social, the woman was glad to
sit there and “just talk” with me for the entire evening
if that's all I wanted.
It wasn’t all I wanted, it was just all I could figure out
how to do.
Chitty Chat is just casual getting to know each
other stuff--asking the sort of easy questions that any
crewmember who happens to be lazing about the
deck of her ship can answer with ease.
“Where are you from?”
“What's your name?
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“What do you like to do for fun?”
I often ask a woman, “What's your story?”
This sounds almost like an intimidatingly
existential question, but without exception women
take it as permission to describe whatever part of her
life looms largest at the moment.
Last year I met a super-sexy, semi-trailer-trashy,
early-twenties blonde on Freemont Street in
downtown Las Vegas and within twenty seconds of
meeting her I asked, 'What's your story?'
She giggled that she was just emerging from a
failed marriage and hadn't had sex with any man
except her ex in over five years and not even with him
for the last two years...and that was basically the end
of our Chitty Chat and the start of the hottest 72 hours
of my three-month sojourn in Sin City.
Again and always, avoid discussing what a
woman does for work until after you've fucked her.
Neither her job part nor yours has any role to play in
the seduction process.
Let sleeping parts lie.
However...
For fun and extra credit, during Chitty Chat you
can talk about a totally made-up job that you clearly
do not really do.
I sometimes tell women I'm a door-to-door Player
Piano salesman--you know, the old-fashioned kind
with the rolls of paper with holes punched in ‘em? I
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have this whole routine about me exhaustedly
pushing an upright player piano down the street and
knocking on doors and trying to get the thing into
their house for a demo and then describing how we
have to do all-nighters at the factory, punching out
the player-piano rolls for gangsta rap tunes and shit.
Women love made-up stuff.
Because...
It gets them out of the serious world of overthinkery they have to dwell in so much of the time.
Alternately, I’ll claim to be a door-to-door stripper
pole salesman. My best selling model, I tell them, is a
see through Plexiglas pole with live goldfish inside.
From here I often suggest that the woman I’m
chitty chattying with is actually a stripper herself--but
won’t admit it because she’s too much of a good girl
or something...and the older the woman you say this
to, the better it works.
Being a spy is a good pretend job for one or both
of you to have.
These days I regularly say to a woman, “I'm not
even gonna ask what you do for work because I know
you'll just lie since you're probably a spy or
something.”
As with being an alien, women totally dig being
mistaken for a spy and they will start running with it,
accusing you of being a spy in return and so on.
The point of Chitty Chat is to briefly bond with a
woman on a social level and make friends with her various
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crewmembers, while giving the two of you space to become
Sexually Entangled and generate a Seduction Singularity
that can cosmically inflate across the vast chasm that once
separated the two of you.
Or not.
As you already know, seduction ain't science.
It's motherfucking Magic.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
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CHECKING IN
Alright,
my love, we're about to reach—and, yes, I
did just call you “my love”...how the fuck could I
NOT love you after you've shown so much
willingness to put in the work to level up again and
again as we've sailed through these treacherous,
uncharted waters?!--the first of our four Checkpoints.
Each one represents a note that must be played in
the song of seduction...
Checkpoint #1 (Stroke 7): Celebrate the realization
that you and the woman you're seducing are each special
and unique individuals
Checkpoint #2 (Stroke 9): Demonstrate that the two
of you will enjoy a unique and special relationship
together as a couple
Checkpoint #3 (Stroke 12): Establish that your
relationship as a couple is sexual in nature
Checkpoint #4 (Stroke 21): Reveal that your sexual
relationship begins Now
Once more, in Paul Harvey’s short-sleeve English,
here are the essential beats of a successful seduction...
You and her are both bad-asses in your own right
There's something special between the two of you
That something special is sexual
Sex is on the menu right now
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As before, feel free to go Off Book anytime and
anywhere you like. Color outside the lines as much as
you desire...just so long as you rejoin our One True
Path at each Checkpoint.
Total elapsed time to reach Checkpoint #1: 5-10
minutes
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Stroke 7: Qualify, Qualify
(CHECKPOINT #1)
Congratulations
on reaching Checkpoint #1 and
earning yourself another sick 4999 points, which
leaves you...oh, sorry, a single point shy of 50,000
total points--so I’m guessing you’re gonna have to
keep reading until you pick up that next point!
Or...I can bribe you again.
If you’ll find your way to where THE SEDUCTION
BIBLE lives on Amazon and give it a nifty 5-Star
Review so them other dudes out there will know it’s
worth reading, then I’ll repay your solid with a solid
by tacking one more point onto your current 49,999.
You don’t need to write the fucking Great
American Novel, just something like, “Yo, read this
shit!” and then slap 5 stars on it and we’re golden.
And now here’s your reward: 1 more point. Which
goes quite nicely with your new total of 50,000
motherfucking points, way to go, sir!
Now this is the point in a seduction when it begins
to dawn on a woman that this is, well, a seduction.
Upon which she's going to start wondering why.
Why are you picking her to play this game
with....other than the obvious fact that she has a
pussy?
And...
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Why should she pick you...other than being the
proud owner of a cock?
To answer these questions, we want to quickly and
efficiently qualify her as being worthy of you, then
qualify you as being worthy of her.
Once you’ve established that you're both bad-asses,
that’s all the reason either of you need to fuck.
QUALIFY HER:
Remember earlier when the two of you were
Chitty Chatting? And remember how you were
paying attention to whatever she was telling you?
You were paying attention, right?!
Dude, what do I keep telling you? You gotta stay
one hundred percent focused and present when
you’re seducing a woman.
Okay,
let’s
pretend
you
were
paying
attention...this is where you remark upon one aspect
of her life that demonstrates a positive quality about
her.
Maybe she shared an experience that reflected
boldness or adventurousness.
Then say, “I admire how bold you were by
traveling to India by yourself.”
Women especially like to be known for their
courage and loyalty—so if you discover evidence of
either of these traits by one of her crewmembers,
now's the time to articulate it. Not in these words
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exactly, of course, but something in the ballpark of...
“I admire your courage in the academic realm.
You’ve encountered so many obstacles on your path
to a Ph.D.--and you just keep going.”
Or...
“You sound like a loyal friend!”
Qualifying a woman just needs to be about one
thing...not two, not two hundred.
A mistake often made by men is meticulously
assembling an entire dossier on some poor creature
they just met. They strip-mine her whole life history
across multiple dates under the guise of 'getting to
know her'--as if learning every particular of a person's
past inevitably leads to a genuine understanding of
who they are in the present. (If this strategy actually
worked, then professional historians would
understand people best of all and would presumably
get laid more than any other category of men...instead
of, well, never!)
All it takes to qualify a woman is to bring a single,
genuine quality about her into Mutual Knowledge
between the two of you so she feels just a little bit
seen.
QUALIFY YOU:
This is the step that a wearying number of men get
wrong. Men universally over-qualify themselves to
women.
If I had to pick just one secret to print out on little
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cards to hand out at the Dude Factory, it would be...
All the many, glorious details of who you were in the
past and what you've done in your life up until now don't
matter in the least to a woman in terms of your fuckability.
In a previous incarnation, when I was certifiably
the Most Clueless Man Alive, I breathlessly trotted
out my entire resume with every woman I met.
Only slowly did it dawn on me that the more time
I spent boring a woman with all the reasons she
should to fuck me, the less likely she would be to do
so.
My friend, nothing turns a woman off faster than
having to sit through a tedious recitation of a man's
supposed awesomeness.
Here's what you need to know about what a
woman needs to know...
A woman cares less about what you've done in your
past than about what you're doing right now.
And I mean Right-The-Fuck-Now!
Forget sharing your exploits from the high school
debate team or how much money you earned last
year--and, instead, start showing up to your
seductions.
Stand (hint, hint!) in front of a woman entirely
awake and alert—steered by your abundant
Masculine energy and powered by your Infinite Lust,
giving her the gift of your entire attention.
Feeling you Fully Present in front of her is the only
true and useful aspect of your character that a woman
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needs to know before she believes you're qualified to fuck
her.
Not bragging about yourself at this stage of the
game may prove to be a hard step for you to take. It
certainly was for me.
Fuck--it still is.
When I think back on all the potential sex-capades
I talked myself out of by revealing too much pointless
information about myself, I could cry. Ugh, all those
wasted hours and wasted babes! Seriously, even now
there's a tear forming in the corner of my eye, lemme
tell you.
But wait...
I suddenly feel better, because I just remembered
that less than an hour ago, no lie, in the middle of this
very afternoon here in London, I was fucking a
spectacular, mid-twenties, 6' blonde photographer
possessed of a tight, Eastern European body, with the
sweetest smooth pussy--like a paper cut between her
thighs--and the total elapsed time of our
conversations from meeting to fucking was perhaps
fifteen or twenty minutes, at most...and just about the
only “fact” she knew about my entire life was that I
was book writer from America.
It was only afterwards, as we lay slap-andtickledy, butt-nakedly upon the bed--scrolling
through a collection of her color-drenched
photographs on her iPad--that I noticed her stylized
signature at the bottom of the pictures and thus did I
learn her last name.
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She never did ask mine. True story.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
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Stroke 8: Get Entangled or Bust
If you and the woman you're seducing are going to
become Sexually Entangled on this day—and this day
is the only day that matters—then it will have
happened by now.
Should you become Entangled, then you'll find
yourself being pulled towards her. It will feel easier to
keep playing with her than to stop--as if there were a
stickiness to your connection.
Simultaneously, her eyes will light up. That light is
her opening to you, giving you the permission to
enter her Multiverse. Your mission, should you
choose to accept it, is to open up to her in return so
that your two Game Realities can merge into one.
I want you to steer your ship directly into that
light...because that's the magical route to the enchanting
world within her.
When you're Sexually Entangled with a woman,
you'll feel it.
Just as you'll both feel it when you're not.
If the two of you have not become Entangled, it
will become displeasantly, abundantly evident. Your
turgid conversation will feel as weighted down as
Virginia Woolf's stone-filled pockets when she waded
to her death in the River Ouse. You'll feel an
increasing desire to get away—to swim back to shore
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and save yourself.
And you'll—wait, wait, wait...what kind of sick
fuck compares a misstep in the seduction process to
the tragic suicide of a literary icon?!
“Have you no sense of decency, sir?”
Can you believe I actually make a living from
thinking this shit up?!
A good living at that?!
One that affords me the opportunity to travel the
world full-time--writing down one stupid-ass thing or
another for a few hours a day and banging hot chicks
the rest of the time!
Ugh, I am so annoying.
Seriously...
Fuck me!
AND that Horse Of A Different Color I insist on
riding everywhere!
Seriously, what an arrogant fucking asshole I am. I
wouldn't blame you one bit if you totally hate me for
leading the life of a rockstar without having gone
through the bother of actually becoming a rockstar.
And what’s up with that Artist as Shaman shit
anyway? Is that like a code word for selling my soul
to Satan in exchange for all this esoteric knowledge or
some fucking thing?!
And you really ought to be burning with jealousy,
because right now your life maybe kinda sucks a little
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(or a lot), and you're stuck in whatever godforsaken
life situation you're stuck in.
And although some of the shit I'm telling you may
be rocking your world a little, here and there, you still
can't begin to imagine how everything's gonna click
into place so you can finally make it to other side of
the Suck-Zone and make sweet love down by the
river with one fine bitch at some point in your very
distant future, much less bang one or two fine bitches
a day the way I do it.
But, if it's any consolation—and it won't be,
because, again, Fuck Me and everything I say!—I used
to be stuck in a far worse place than you'll ever reach.
And however big of a pussy you are now, I was a
far bigger pussy, and I suffered the sufferings of a
dozen men as I slogged my formerly fat, broke ass
across a sexless desert of indifferent women and
sneering men for year after hopeless, lonely,
directionless, celibate, didn't-even-have-twenty-extrabucks-to-pay-a-local-streewalker-to-blow-me year.
Until finally—recently...like only in the past couple
of years recently—I managed to pull it all together
and, without so much as a fucking map to guide me
or a single person in the world to cheer me on
through my miserable sufferings and insufferable
missteps,
I
somehow,
miraculously
and
incomprehensibly, washed up on the far shores of the
Suck-Zone and I dragged myself wearily to my feet
and then...
And then...
And then I made one of my most significant
decisions of my life, my friend.
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I decided to come back.
For you.
So here we are.
It's me and you, man. Doing this work together.
Crossing the Suck-Zone of Seduction one painful,
suck-ass step at a time.
But at least you've got a motherfucking map.
At least you've got one motherfucker to cheer you
on.
I had fucking neither one. But I still made it across,
and so can you. So brush the sand out of your little
pink vagina and let's keep moving. It won't be easy.
I'm going to annoy you plenty. Deal with it and keep
up.
You're gonna suffer. Of course you're gonna
fucking suffer and you're gonna hate me for the
suffering. But you can't avoid the suffering, nor
should you try.
Here's a motherfucking secret that the Standard
Dogma-teers—with
their
presto-change-o
programming fixes and their polished turds of
incessant positive affirmations--hopes you'll never
figure the fuck out...
The brutal alchemy of your current experiences is what
will ultimately transform you into a Master.
That said, still...
Fuck me!
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Whew, I'm glad we got that out of the way. That's
just something that needed to be aired out, you
know?!
I am available for children's parties, by the way.
So if you and the lady of the hour do not become
Sexually Entangled, you can either load up the
pockets of your overcoat with stones and head for the
river, or you can walk away.
You have no other hand to play.
“No, no, no—I don't wanna go!”
Cast your ship off from hers with a tip of the hat
like the gentleman you are and sail off in your
separate directions.
“But...but...I really like THIS girl!”
Believe me, if you're not feeling the tension of a
Sexual Entanglement, she's not feeling it a hundred
times more. If she enjoyed your company, of course
she'll be sad when you go, but she'll also be more than
a little relieved if she suspected your goal was to
seduce her.
“I'm NOT leaving!”
Look, fine, stay.
Seriously, you can hang out with her the rest of the
evening or even the rest of your lives. You can
become best pals and do all kinds of things together—
talk, go bowling, dance, make fun of strangers
passing by the sidewalk cafe where you're nursing
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overpriced chocolate martinis.
I do this with women ALL the time. The majority
of my friends are women and the majority of them are
not my lovers and never will be. Their Naughty Girl
and my Lover simply never became Sexually
Entangled.
These women love me dearly, but they would
never fuck me.
Instead, other members of our crew became
Entangled with one another and so we go to the
theatre together or to Ecstatic Dances or we take turns
hypnotizing one another or whatever turn our
friendship takes...and if you're willing to play by
those rules with the women you don’t become
Sexually Entangled with, then by all means enjoy
your playdate. Female friends are the funnest things
to play with ever. But, please, for her sanity and
yours, let go of the belief that you will ever
successfully seduce her.
Here's a secret that will save you (and your female
friends) untold amounts of grief if you'll just take it to
heart...
You're fucked if you think you're gonna fuck any of
your existing female friends.
Nowever, that gives you both boundless space to
grow into even better friends.
Glad we cleared that up!
Listen, you're moving in the direction of so much
sexual abundance that you can walk away from any
seduction, as well as easily refrain from hitting on
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your female pals, because--who knows?--maybe just
around the next corner awaits a lovely and
unsuspecting gazelle for you to pounce upon.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
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ENTERING HER GAME REALITY
Bro, I got more Bad News...
By this point in the seduction, after all the time
you've gamely put in, you still have approximately
0.00% (I've rounded up to the nearest hundredth fer
even gooder scientifical akkuracy there, Pogo!) of
having sex with the lovely lady in question.
Even though you're both Sexually Entangled, you
are still on the outside looking in.
You don't get to play any games with her—most
especially the game of fucking--until and unless you
become a character in her Multiverse.
How can I be so sure she won't fuck you yet?!
Well, don't take my word for it, let's ask her...
If we were to freeze the whole scene right now
with our nifty, patent-pending Freeze-O-Ray Gun and
asked the woman in question if she'd fuck you, she'd
briefly go inside herself to learn the answer, then
return to announce, with unwavering conviction,
“Nope.”
It's probably a good thing you're frozen solid right
now, because you'd be all, “What the fuck?! I've been
chatting up this fine bitch for fifteen minutes now and
I'm still at zero motherfucking point zero zero
percent?! What the fuck was the purpose of any of
this?!”
And I'd be like, “Calm down, motherfucker, we're
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just one stroke away from changing the game
completely!”
Then you'd go, “Pardonnez moi, monsieur...please
continue at your earliest convenience.”
'Cause, you know, that's just how dudes talk to
one another when dames ain't around.
But, seriously, how does she know that she won't
she fuck you yet? How could she be so damn certain
you are still a “No” fully fifteen minutes into the
seduction?
Welcome to the equivalent of Fermat's Last
Theorem in the world of seduction--the unsolvable
conundrum that everybody gave up trying to resolve
decades ago...
How the fuck do women know who they want to fuck or
not?
Well, that real Fermat shit got all proved in the
end, so maybe (no promises...just maybe) we can get
all Good Will Hunting on this shit, too?!
Perhaps the answer is hidden in plain sight,
behind a door so obvious that none of them other
Einsteins in Big Dating Advice even noticed it, much
less thought to unlock it.
Although, in their defense...actually, sorry, I got
nothing.
Let's not sugarcoat it...
They're just fucking stupid.
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Big Dating Advice is like the Hamburger Helper of
the self-help world—and they’re all still eating that
shit straight from the box.
To solve the perpetually perplexing problem of
how a woman knows whether she will fuck you or
not, we need to journey into...
Where else?
Her Multiverse.
Imagine showing up on the deck of her great ship-where her crewmembers continue to play the Statue
Game thanks to our swell Freeze-O-Ray Gun--and
then finding our way belowdecks. Just a couple of
levels down, there's a narrow corridor running
parallel to the keel of the ship with cabin doors on
either side.
At the far end stands a plain wooden door. It's
closed and locked, but there's a heavy, golden
skeleton key dangling from a hook nearby.
Take the thick key in hand and slide it slowly into
the snug keyhole—you dirty, dirty boy!--and push the
door open to reveal a spacious cabin filled with
dudes—and more than a few dudettes—milling about
and having tea and whatnot.
Just inside the door hangs a worn brass bell. If you
ring the bell—go ahead, don't be shy!--the assembled
guys (and dolls) will fall easily into a line.
This is the woman's Booty Line Up—made up of
the avatars of the people who've already been cleared
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and pre-approved for her to fuck due to their good
looks, good fortune, social value or whatever
randomy criteria she sets for her lovers.
This illustrious group may include some of her
exes, a few people she currently likes or is already
seeing, along with the usual suspects from the ranks
of movie stars and other celebrities...and, for some
inexplicable reason, in this case there's also a wellgroomed German Shepherd near the far end of her
Booty Line Up.
Here's the deal...
Only once your avatar appears in her Booty Line
Up do you become eligible to become her lover,
because the only way a woman knows if she's down
to fuck any particular person is if they show up in this
cabin of her ship. (For men it's much more of a Cattle
Call—we'll fuck just about anybody who shows up to
the audition!)
Have you ever played the game of What Famous
Person Would You Fuck with a woman? As soon as
you throw out a name, on the outside she'll
immediately give a thumbs up or thumb down.
But to discover how she arrived at that answer,
now and always one needs to go into her Game
Reality. And what happened was this...
With lantern in hand and at the leisurely pace of
her internal Game Clock, she found her way to the
Booty Line Up cabin at the end of the corridor,
unlocked the door with the gold skeleton key, rang
the bell and surveyed the troops to determine if Ryan
Gosling or Robert Downey, Jr. or whatever Young
Punk of The Month you named is among their
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number. (Oh, in case you wondered, Johnny Depp's
avatar is factory-installed in the Booty Line Up of all
women these days--every generation has its
Valentino.)
Having ascertained that a particular person was
(or was not) in her Booty Line Up, then she can come
back and give you her answer.
Now just because someone appears in a woman's
Booty Line Up doesn't mean she WILL fuck them, it
merely means she CAN. They've been cleared and
approved through whatever vetting process a woman
uses, but she still needs to be seduced.
Back out in Actual Reality with the woman you
are currently seducing, by this point you have already
done enough to deserve to be in her Booty Line Up-you've become Sexually Entangled with her,
generated a Seduction Singularity between the you
and qualified yourself as a fellow bad-ass.
Yet there remains one critical element missing...
You do not yet exist in her Game Reality.
The next step is for you to insert a game piece—an
avatar representing you—into her Multiverse.
Only then will you begin to exist on the inside of
her.
Only then can your avatar can take his rightful
place in her Booty Line Up--tucked between that
ginger-haired guy whose name you can never
remember from that popular TV show, and the sleek
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German Shepherd who used to lick peanut butter off
her pussy during a lean time in her dating life.
Ohhhhhh.
That's explains the dog.
Total elapsed time to reach Checkpoint #2: 10-15
minutes
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Stroke 9: Create A Grand Adventure
(CHECKPOINT #2)
Welcome
to Checkpoint #2! Let's put another 3500
points in your tank, just 'cause we can--bringing you
to 53,500 for the nonce, you fucking bad ass!
It's time to turn loose your Lover, who's
demonstrated such admirable restraint up until now.
Slowly at first, and then with increasing momentum,
he's gonna steer the seduction directly into the highly
charged winds of your mutual sexuality.
Besides being sexy and sexual, your Lover is also
just a little nuts.
He'll casually say and do things that would
mortify many other parts of you. Your Lover takes
risks. He pushes buttons. He skates right into the
middle of a patch of thin ice...and if he crashes
through into the freezing water below, he'll try to
hand-catch a fish on the way out.
And he's about to make quite an entrance.
Your Lover's going to kick things off by presenting
the woman you're seducing with an Outrageous
Offer—which is a shared activity well beyond the
pale of your fledging friendship.
Last year when I lived in Las Vegas for three
bacon-crisp months, at this stage of the game I'd
sometimes invite a woman to accompany me to the
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top of the Eiffel Tower at the Paris Hotel and “make
out like teenagers”.
Then I'd immediately drop my Outrageous Offer
and continue with the thread of our ongoing
conversation for another minute or three, and
suddenly stop and say, “Okay, I'll let you come with
me to the top of the Eiffel, but we're just holding
hands! I don't kiss on the first date.”
This also marks the first occasion she's heard we
were even on date. Which, of course, we were not--it
was just my Lover being typically brash and buttonpushy.
An Outrageous Offer should to be an invitation to
bounce from wherever you are now to some other
place in the general vicinity—although it really
doesn't matter whether it's a plausible or implausible
destination.
Activities I've suggested to women upon knowing
them for ten minutes or less...
“Let's go midnight Glow Bowling!”
“Yo, zipline down the middle of Freemont Street!”
“We should take some magic mushrooms and go
hang out at the cemetery!”
“When's the last time you went skinny dipping in
the middle of the night?!”
The point of an Outrageous Offer isn't to actually
take her up to the top of the Eiffel Tower and kiss her
or the like, but to encourage her to start imagining that
she will be doing other things with you—that the two
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of you have a future, however silly and farfetched.
And therein lays the secret passageway...
It is through that imagining—which necessarily takes
place within her Game Reality, as she conceptualizes your
scenario of the two of you doing something together—that
your avatar finally gets inserted into her Multiverse.
That's all it takes.
Then you immediately turn up the heat by
proposing
an
activity
logarithmically
more
outrageous than the first one...
So next you create a Grand Adventure with her-preferably one involving international travel and
nights spent together and all the trappings of a
storybook romance.
“You seem cool,” you might say. “We should run
off and join the Peace Corps together. And help some
poor kids and stray animals. But no place too poverty
stricken. Hopefully they'll station us in Dallas or
something.”
Or...
“Listen, if we get drunk tonight and accidentally
get married, is it okay if we have a Black midget Elvis
impersonator preside over our divorce tomorrow?!”
Or...
“What d'ya say we steal a hot balloon and a case of
champagne and see how far we can get by dawn?!”
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Again, although you and the woman you're
seducing are standing—STANDING, big fella—in the
Universe, the Grand Adventure you're creating with
her is being processed and imagined in her
Multiverse.
Which doesn't make it any less real for her. Quite the
contrary, since Actual Reality only becomes “real” for her
when it's in her Game Reality.
Stay with me, brother. You got this. You’re right
there.
No sooner do you mention flying away in a hot air
balloon than she's loading up her Welcoming Party
into the wicker basket hanging beneath it and
envisioning setting off on that voyage.
Because I’m a fucking asshole who gets to travel
the world full-time, I always have a Next Place I'm
Going that I can invite women to. As you know, I've
been living in London the past six months, but once I
wrap up this wicked little book in the next week or so,
I'm moving to the sexy Spanish town of Barcelona for
a few months, then I’ll be taking a leisurely, two-week
Repositioning Cruise on a giant passenger ship back
to the United Snakes of Amerika in time for
Christmas.
As you might imagine, at Checkpoint #2, every
single woman I seduce gets an invitation to come visit
me in sunny Spain or join me on my cruise or some
kind of thing. Of course, I do genuinely want them to
come play with me--however, even if I wasn't actually
going doing any of this, I could still invite them.
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It's the thought that counts.
It's literally the thought of all this, not the doing of any
of it, that counts
Even if I currently lived in the asshole of the
universe, Indianapolis, Indiana (hey, that's Kurt
Vonnegut's assessment, not mine!), there's nothing
stopping me from saying to a woman at this juncture
of the seduction, “Hey, let's run off to Barcelona
together! All you need to pack is a bathing suit and a
pair of heels—and just the bathing suit bottoms,
really, since all the beaches are topless!”
Again, it’s not about the going there, it’s about the
thinking about the going there.
Because whether she eagerly accepts your
invitation to a Grand Adventure or laughs it off as
absurd, the end result is that she spent a moment on
the outside and several long minutes on the inside
imagining it...
And so your avatar is now a character in the Inner Role
Playing Game that continually unfolds within her.
You're in like Flynn, baby!
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
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Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
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Stroke 10: Board Her Ship...
While you're standing there—standing, my brother!-talking to your hottie, just connecting a little and
imagining some adventures together, it once again
doesn't seem like much is happening, does it?!
Well, fucking everything is happening, but down
beneath the surface, like it always is. In her
Multiverse, the place is abuzz with activity...
Your two great ships have been loosely lashed
together, and with every passing moment the bonds
grow tighter.
On board your vessel, your Captain, Lover and
Little Prince have been watching the delightful chaos
on the deck of her ship—where a score of her
crewmembers and stowaways have been rushing
around as they try to figure out what the fuss is
about. All they know right now is that another ship
has pulled alongside their own and they seem to be
heading in a slightly different direction.
None of them is quite certain what game they're
supposed to be playing or which part is best suited to
playing it—and the situation isn't being helped by
that same ol' batshit crazy stowaway who so often
wanders the deck of the woman’s ship during times
of uncertainty, spouting her batshit crazy nonsense-“Don't talk to boys!”...“How'd your ass get so
fat?”...“Wait, Rosebud's that crappy sled?!”
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Your Captain is piloting both ships from his perch
at the helm—but that will change once your Lover
gets into position.
Since your two ships have become Entangled with
one another, and you now exist as an avatar within
her Multiverse as a result of her imagining a Grand
Adventure with you, the boarding can proceed.
Thus does your Lover now find his way to the
shouldering gunwales between the boats, and swing
first one long leg--
Now before you rush out to buy a pirate costume...
This isn't anything “you” need to do.
I'm just describing what happens beneath the
surface of you and a lady in such a way that you can
grasp, for perhaps the first time in your life, exactly
how your words and actions back out in Actual
Reality impact and change the game being played in
Game Reality...and vice versa.
Mostly vice versa.
Never forget the Real Game's inside.
The things you say and do out “here” in the
Universe are largely controlled by what happens in
your Multiverse, not the other way around, the way
everybody has been insisting your entire life.
You first compose a symphony inside yourself—
your tousle-haired composer locked away in his cabin
with a bottle of wine, a pot of ink and a stack of
foolscap—and only later do you write it down for
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realz in the outside world.
According to the Inner RPG Model, changing the way
you move your game pieces on the inside inevitably
changes your results on the outside.
And the way you move your avatar within her
Game Reality is to hit the beats of each of the 22
Strokes.
Again, you don't have to “try” to do any of this on
the inside of you or her.
This is what you already do.
This is what all people have always done.
--and then your Lover throws his other leg over
the rails, and drops firmly onto the deck of her
ship...with your Little Prince not far behind.
Her startled crew move backupishly as your Lover
strides deliberately among them, offering a charming
smile here and a provocative wink there.
To one side, her Bodyguard stiffens, biceps abulging. Your Lover makes eye contact and slowly
gives a head nod of respect, which the Bodyguard
barely returns—the mutual agreement between the
two of you being that you're not friends, but neither
are you enemies, and let's keep it that way.
Directly behind him is her Naughty Girl.
And baby is dressed to kill! She looks like a cross
between a turn-of-the-century French whore and a
dominatrix from the distant future.
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And she's all bouncing up and down, rocking back
and forth, trying to peek out from behind the massive
Bodyguard and catch the eye of your Lover, who for
his part seems to be totally ignoring her at the
moment.
Instead your Lover turns abruptly and advances to
the helm of her ship. Ever so casually he reaches out
one hand and rests it lightly on the outer ring of the
wheel with a Cheshire cat smile, shrugging his
eyebrows mischievously in the direction of a
bewildered Alice.
If her Captain is awake, this is the point where she
crosses her arms and leans against the main mast,
taking in your Lover with bemused detachment.
Masters love to watch other Masters work.
As for the rest of her crewmembers, it's finally
starting to slowly dawn on them exactly what game is
being played.
They know this game. They like this game.
If everybody plays their part, then they're all
eating steak tonight.
Unless...
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
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Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
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Stroke 11: ...or Run Away
Unless...
Somebody objects.
Despite becoming Sexually Entangled and
generating a Seduction Singularity between the two
of you, if any of her troops protest loud or long
enough, ain't nobody eating steak on this night.
Fuck steak...Spam won't even be on the menu.
This objection could come from tortured sexual
nightmares of her past, or from besuited career
ambitions in her present, or even full-breasted
maternal yearnings of her future.
It can also be possible for a 3D, holographic
stowaway representing her mom or therapist or
possessive husband to storm on deck and make
enough of a fuss to rain on everybody's parade.
Motherfuckers!
No matter which quarter it comes from--if the
protests appear intractable, then her crew will swing
into action to repel your boarders. A curt “Beat it,
pal!” from her Bodyguard or snarls from her
suddenly awake and barkish Puppy Body might not
be enough do the trick.
The atomic bonds of your mutual attraction could
already be so strong that she'll need to pour enough
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dark energy and negative emotion into the space
between you to create a Separation Event.
Cue Alice, the undisputed Queen of Upsets.
This little Terror of Tiny Town has no remorse or
regret about raining down verbal and psychic blows
on your Lover and Little Prince until they scramble
for safety back to your ship. She's more ruthless than
Dexter—she'll cheerfully slice you to pieces with a
few cutting remarks, the hurtful memory of which
will still sting years later.
Such a charmer, that girl!
Things seemed to be going so well in the seduction
until--BOOM!
The woman suddenly blows up, angrily accusing
you of being married or a player or gay or whatever
angle she can find to get your goad. This isn’t a test.
This is a woman who doesn’t want to be seduced by
you on this night and she’s gonna make sure you get
the fucking message.
It doesn't take a drink in the face to realize you're
staring down both barrels of a Separation Event...until
it does.
Your only reasonable response is to do the right
thing and grant her wish.
Maintain your poise, thank the lady for her time,
and walk away like the fucking gentleman you are
and will continue to be.
Above all, don't react emotionally—here or in the
face of any upset by any woman at any time. To
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purloin Lincoln's illustrious phrase, be guided by the
better angels of your nature. Retreat peacefully and
graciously.
Brave Sir Robin ran away-No!
When danger reared its ugly head, he bravely turned his
tail and fled-I never did!
Brave Sir Robin turned about, and valiantly, he
chickened out-Oh, you liar!
Of course, just because you're able to summon the
strength of character to walk away from the bloody
meat cleaver of her rejection without reacting
emotionally on the outside doesn't mean you won't be
hurting on the inside.
More specifically, your inner boy may feel sad,
unwanted and more than a little scared by her abrupt
dismissal.
Here's my advice to you...
In the face of rejection, make your Little Prince your
immediate and exclusive priority.
Stop whatever you were doing or intended to do,
and nurture him. Reread the chapter on the “Care
And Feeding of Your Little Prince.”
I mean, like, go home and actually reread it and
follow the recommendations.
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Because after being dismissed so cavalierly, your
Little Prince needs the comforting and concern that
can only come from you.
He wants and needs to feel...
Handsome.
Safe.
Loved.
Knowing that your Little Prince will suffer the
slings and arrows of a woman's rejection from time to
time, you may be tempted to lock the little guy in his
cabin when you sail into a seduction.
I strongly advise against it.
Yes, your Little Prince can be hurt. Yes, he takes
rejection hard. Yes, when Alice comes out swinging,
she purposefully aims her blows at him because she
knows that's your soft part.
And that's exactly why you bring him along every
time.
You need the trusting boyishness of your Little
Prince to temper the strength of the Captain and the
perpetual lust of the Lover.
Your Little Prince embodies your soft underbelly.
He is your vulnerability.
You need him just as much as he needs you,
because being strong without being vulnerable is the
very definition of an Asshole.
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Sure, assholes can't be hurt. They don't suffer.
And, because of that, they cannot learn and they
cannot grow. Assholes cannot see into the woman
they are seducing and so they never even learn she
has a Deep Spot, much less how touch it.
Assholes make a lot of noise, but they usually
don't get very far in this world. Being an Asshole is
like driving around in second gear. Sure, they can
plow over a bunch of shit and run down a bunch of
people without themselves being hurt, but they also
rarely reach their intended destination.
Yet with your vulnerable Little Prince at your side,
you can go as far as you can dream.
So keep your inner boy close, and watch his little
back.
When he gets hurt—as he will—then stop whatever
you're doing and take care of him.
At those times, nurture him and love him with
everything you've got. I don't give a fuck how wu-wu
and girlish this may sound to you by the light of day,
just do it and watch your life change.
Soothe the Little Prince within you.
Calm him.
Embrace him.
You're his last line of defense, his only hope of
feeling handsome and loved and safe.
Don't let him down.
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RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
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THE STIRRING OF HER BEAST
In the dank, darkened hold of the woman's great ship, the
wooden floorboards creak beneath the weight of the massive
iron cage as her beautiful, dangerous Beast stirs growlishly.
Flare of nostril.
Stretch of stomach.
Grimace of throat.
Twitch of whisker.
Scenting ancient, primal, lustful longings.
The menacing claws of her Tigress ache in anticipation
of the fight to come.
The fight to come.
The creature stands in deadly stillness, heavy of breath,
not daring alert the others of its newfound wakefulness and
the hunger of its loins. A too soonly roar of sexual desire
might frighten the others.
Sometimes a predator attacks. Sometimes a predator
waits. And now, wrapped in the alluring stench of the
death-battle to come, it waits.
Total elapsed time to reach Checkpoint #3: 30 minutes
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Stroke 12: Join The Battle Between Her Good
Girl and Naughty Girl
(CHECKPOINT #3)
Dude,
Checkpoint #3--another 3500 points,
bringing you to a record-breaking 57,000 points--and,
let me just say, you fucking rock!
Alright, before you become as incurably,
intractably and insufferably arrogant as lil ol' moi,
let's get back to work.
Because this is the shit. We've reached the turning
point in the seduction. It's about to be on like
motherfucking Donkey Kong.
But first...
Can I just open up and be vulnerable with you—
because, you know, I've got my own little boy inside
of me, and he sits beside me while I'm writing, with
his own 64-color box of crayons and a heap of
construction paper and sometimes he makes paper
airplanes and draws flames on the side and faces of
people screaming, and then he loudly crashes these
planes into the ground...between me and you, the
goddamn kid scares the bejeezus outta me sometimes,
ya know?--and say that I am going to miss you when
our adventure is done?
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I've sincerely enjoyed every moment of our
journey together.
I feel like you and I have bonded during our
explorations of the topsy-turvy, other-worldly Inner
RPG Model as we've sailed toward the distant reaches
of a woman's magically surrealistic Game Reality.
Even though we might not yet have met in the
Universe, in some enchanted, Quantum Entangledly
way, you and I have already succeeded at placing our
avatars in each other's Multiverse. And, frankly, the
closer we get to the end of our odyssey, the more our
eventual separation weighs on my heart.
Nothing like a side of Separation Anxiety to bring
on a case of the sads.
I'm gonna miss you, motherfucker.
Or...maybe we can get all Casablanca on one
another and turn this into the beginning of a beautiful
friendship, eh, Louie?
To that end—howz about you friend me up on
FACEBOOK at this exact URL:
facebook.com/lowcarbrevolution
Plus follow my ass on TWITTER:
@the_bookwright
Now that we got all the weepy bits out of the way,
let’s get back to figuring out how we’re gonna fuck
this chick!
Because we're closer than you realize.
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Here's a secret worth repeating every day for the
rest of your life or until you finally believe it,
whichever comes second...
Women want to fuck way more than you want to fuck.
Your desire is profound.
Insert finger-in-mouth-popping sound here.
Hers is infinite.
Booyah.
End of discussion.
So, believe me, nobody wants you to succeed at
seducing her more than she does.
But here's the rub...
A woman cannot seduce herself. She needs your help.
Here's a secret you'll never hear from the
chuckleheads over at Big Dating Advice, Inc.--who
podcastishly and blogiferously dispense flaccid
seduction tips like they were Sarah Palin handing out
free condoms at the Eunuch's Convention...
Women want you to bear—or at least share--the
responsibility for giving her Naughty Girl permission to
come out and play.
Even after all these centuries of “progress” into a
supposedly sexually liberated, post-feminist, nonmonogamous, frisky-pants society, the Naughty Girl
within every woman remains perpetually UglyStepsister-ized--while her cloying Good Girl whirls
and twirls glass slipperishly around the ballroom like
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Cinder-fucking-ella without a time limit.
So we're going to give the lady want she wants.
We'll take ownership of giving her Naughty Girl a
space to play and permission to play there so she
won't have to—always remembering the woman we
are seducing has probably never been in this situation
before with a gentleman who's truly a master of
seduction, and so, frankly, she still sucks at playing
this game, because how can she ever get better at it if
she never gets a fucking chance to play?!
Fortunately, you showed up at exactly the right
moment in her life for her to be seduced.
Now.
Alice is a jealous little bitch, so if you know what's
good for you—and, increasingly, you do...go YOU!-then you'll want to make sure she feels seen before
you start humping your woman's leg like the second
coming of Beavis and Butthead.
Always, always, always acknowledge the Good Girl
within a woman.
Never omit this step.
Not even (especially not even) with the hookers,
strippers, porn stars, actual sluts and sexual
intellectuals like the Nicole Daedones and Arden
Leighs of the world it may be your good fortune to
befriend.
And here's the magic phrase I never want to catch
you repeating verbatim...
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“You seem like a good girl.”
Once more, she seems that way because she is.
Even the naughtiest girl you'll ever meet is also a
good girl, because no one of us is dominated around
the clock by a single side of us.
When I'm good, I'm very good, but when I'm bad, I'm
better.
--Mae West
(Man, they don't make 'em like motherfucking Mae
West anymore, do they?!)
Then say, in your own words, “There's a part of
you that's really good. And she always tries to do the
right thing?”
During the brief instant in actual time it will take a
woman to pronounce a quick, “Yes”, join me on the
Game Clock as we note how this one short phrase sets
up three potential wins...
In the first, by saying ‘There’s a part of you...’
we're implicitly referring to the Inner RPG Model that
states we all have different parts taking turns being
us—WHICH ALL WOMEN ALREADY KNOW AND
UNDERSTAND, EVEN IF THEY DON'T USE OUR
SAME VOCABULARY TO DESCRIBE IT. This means
that from here on we can build on this...isolating and
communicating with individual crewmembers within
her as needed to further the seduction.
In the second, we've explicitly identified one part of
her as being a Good Girl, and we've publicly praised
her, which makes this crewmember feel seen. We're
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also giving this part permission to continue being
good even as we later identify and interact with a
different, naughtier ego state.
And in the third, we're using the most beloved
word among my fellow hypnotists: try. Since trying
implies failure, what we're saying is that her good girl
may try to do the “right thing”, but it doesn't always
work out, and that's okay, too.
And now for the coup de grace...
Let's introduce the star of the remainder of the
seduction by calling out her Naughty Girl with all the
Price-Is-Right-“Come-On-Down!” gumption we can
muster...
“On the other hand,” you continue, “you also have
a Naughty Girl in there, don't you?”
Wait for her response.
Another breathless, “Yes.”
She's may look at you with some surprise. It’s
because she’s not accustomed to men possessing Clue
#1 about how she ticks, much less speaking her own
language so fluently.
Upon which add--in different words than these, as I
keep saying, “And when your Naughty Girl comes
out to play, she can be very, very naughty, can't
she?!”
Very few women will have a ready response for
this unexpected statement. But she'll be thinking
really, really hard.
Just mentioning her Naughty Girl like that perks
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her up in her Game Reality just like calling roll in a
highschool classroom. Where before she was all
doodling and daydreamery, now she sits bolt upright
at the mention of her name.
We've now nicely set up the rest of the show and
effectively announced to the audience that during
tonight's performance the role of her Good Girl will
be played by her Naughty one instead—there's
nothing to think about, no impending Decision
Fatigue to tire her out, that's just the way it’s gonna
be.
For extra credit, you can add...
“If your Naughty Girl did get out, I bet she'd need
a very, very Naughty Boy who knew how to handle
her, wouldn't she?!”
This phrase does so many wonderful things. It lets
her know that being Naughty isn't a flaw, but an
attribute.
It also lets her know that while she may be a little
naughty, you are very, very naughty—which gives her
permission to be naughtier still.
And, finally, it gives her a mega-dose of Chick
Crack by suggesting that if she does let her Naughty
Girl out to play, then you can handle her. Ain’t
nothing a woman fantasizes about more than being
handled by a dominant, masculine presence in the
bedroom.
Congratulations, you've just taken a big step in
turning this woman on.
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And thus is the eternal battle between a woman's Good
Girl and her Naughty Girl joined.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
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Stroke 13: Enter The Metaphor
Perhaps the weirdest secret of them all is why it's still
a secret to so many good people that the real game's
played inside us.
Because deep within the Multiverse of the woman
you're seducing, the act of inviting her Naughty Girl
out to play has created quite a stir...
Your dashing Lover, white linen shirt a-billowing,
now extends a beckoning hand in the direction of her
Naughty Girl. She looks to the Bodyguard with
eyebrows raised expectantly.
He shrugs noncommittally, half-stepping aside.
He has no objections on this day.
As Alice and her Puppy Body pretend a little too
hard not to be paying attention, the Naughty Girl
sashays (that's a real thing, sashaying!) across the
polished wooden deck and sandwiches herself
between your Lover and the helm, tucked like a
happy sardine between his lean, hard body and the
great wooden wheel of life, relaxing into the
adventure to come.
The adventure to come.
Except...
Your Lover deliberately removes his hands from
the helm. The wheel slowly tips over, veering the
super-pair of her ship and yours into an uncharted
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path.
Her Naughty Girl is at a loss.
She wasn't expecting this.
What is she supposed to do? Take the helm? She
doesn't know where you're going. She doesn't want to
be in charge right now—that's what your Lover's for!
In case you hadn't noticed, the Grand Adventure
we proposed earlier--“Can you imagine...just me and
you for two weeks on a massive luxury liner without
a worry in the world?!”--is also a grand metaphor
between you and your sweet young thing about the
sexual adventure you're embarking upon.
If you end up pocketing only a single jewel from
the treasure vault we've been burgling, let it be this...
Changing the story outside changes the story inside.
And not the other way around, as the Standard
Dogma-ticians have always insisted in their
cartoonish
helium-voiced
keynote
speeches
punctuated by bullet-pointed PowerPoints.
You don't need to have a point to make a point.
So you're now going to change the story in her
Multiverse by removing “your” (you as embodied by
your Lover) hands from the helm—such that “she”
(the she currently being performed by her Naughty
Girl, thank you very much) suddenly faces the
Decision Fatigue-y choice of taking control of the
wheel and steering in some direction she hasn't even
thought about yet...or else quietly insisting that you
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retake control and continue on the sexy journey you
seemed to already have in mind.
And you accomplish this out in the Universe by
simply saying, “Are you really gonna come join me in
Tilting at Windmills on the plains of Spain?” or
whatever Grand Adventure you proposed.
Since your Grand Adventure is a shared metaphor
about your shared sexual desires, what you've just
done is opened the door and offered her a graceful
exit, should she choose to take it.
She can quite easily respond, “No, I'm not coming
with you.”
Not coming with you.
If she does say, “No”, then the seduction will
probably fail.
Like they sometimes do.
Often as not—and quite a bit more often than
that—the woman you're seducing will happily play
along. Women love to pretend. They enjoy imagining
a fun and desirable future for themselves. At the same
time, she will frequently say something like, “Yes,
going on a Grand Adventure together sounds like
fun—I just need to figure out when/how to pay for
tickets/some other logistical concern.”
And you respond, “We'll figure that out together.”
Which is girl-speak for, 'I'll own—or at least share—
the Decision Fatigue of solving those little problems.'
And which also means that you’ve taken control once
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again.
Meanwhile, back in her Multiverse, her Naughty
Girl can relax once more into arms of your Lover as
he reaches around her on either side to take firm
grasp of the great wooden wheel--confidently
steering in the direction of her Infinite Desire.
As the salty winds carry the muffled timber of a
rough growls.
From not one Beast...
...but two.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
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Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
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Stroke 14: Play With Your Food
You've
invited her Naughty Girl out to play, once
again dangled the carrot of a Grand Adventure, and,
beneath the surface, your crews are getting to know
one another.
Out here, in the vivid hallucination we call Actual
Reality, it's time to get to know her just a bit more.
You know, swap stories, connect with her as a person,
poke her and prod her with your presence and
imagination.
A gossamer touch on her forearm.
Or a presumptuous palm pressed into the small of
her back...which, I hasten to add, you won't even be
able to reach if you've chosen the sensationdissipating path of sitting down, fool!
Lustily brush her hair back from her cheek and
gaze at her cheekily for a beat too long.
Humans are never not communicating.
And, for the love of Poseidon, keep playing the
game you're already playing. Don't suddenly start
playing some different motherfucking game and
confuse everybody--the way weak men so often do.
Never ask shit like...
“Are you married?”
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“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Is there someone special in your life right now?”
Why the fuck would you ask a woman any of
that?! If she also likes playing the Relationship game
on the side, that's her motherfucking business, not
yours. That's got nothing to do with the game the two
of you are playing.
I don't even ask my ongoing lovers who their other
lovers are.
And that's the same motherfucking game, but it's
still none of my business unless they want to share
with me.
If a woman you're seducing unilaterally mentions
a boyfriend or husband, simply answer with one
word. Say...
“Respect.”
Then just proceed as before. And never mention it
again.
“Respect” lets her know that she's been
heard...and that it's got nothing the fuck to do with
the game at hand. Besides, she most likely said it
because she still sucks at being seduced and figures
it's something you're supposed to mention or
whatever the fuck.
She doesn't mean to spoil the fun, she's just trying
to find her way.
If a woman makes a grab for the wheel of the ship,
gently take it back.
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She may think she has a clue about where the two
of you are headed, but she sure as fuck doesn't know
how to get there—only you do.
And, for the love of Pallas Athena, play with her.
Think up a cute little nickname for your new toy.
That's what lovers do, assign each other pet
nicknames.
But don't settle for mundane tropes like sweetie or
honey or baby-cakes. You can do better than that.
Fashion a cleverish nickname from some aspect of her
experience that's she shared with you.
I had a curvy Russian lover that I referred to, “My
Lil Commie.”
A feisty Australian became, “Bon-Bon”--because,
like the candy, she had a hard shell on the outside
and a soft, creamy filling within.
Then there was...
“Legs.”
“Ducky.”
“Lindita”--“little pretty one” in Spanish.
“Vampira”–“female vampire” in Spanish
“Salope”–“slut” in French, which doesn’t have
nearly the same negative connotations as it does in
English
And “Grandma”--which I've used more than once
on those world-weary babes still in their early
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twenties who think/act like they were 100 years old
or something...and which are quite common, as it
turns out.
The nickname shouldn't be anything mean.
Besides, why would you ever be mean--what the
fuck's wrong with you?!
Come up with a nickname that you'd give a bratty,
lovable kid sister and bestow it upon her. It’s just
more chick crack, believe me.
You've done most of the talking up until now. Let
her talk some...if she wants. Sometimes a woman will
be feel so safe and relaxed and connected that she
won't need to use her words.
Don't force it. Don't ask her any questions that
she'd have to go inside to find the answers for...yet
remain curious about her.
Listen to her. Give her the gift of your undivided
attention.
Here, now and always...
Enjoy your new toy. Revel in her uniqueness and
distinct energy. Feel into her—whatever that means to
you. If you're not having fun, what's the point of
playing? This is a motherfucking game, you should
both be enjoying yourselves!
In a phrase...
Slap & Tickle!
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Here's another tip that goes against your mama's
otherwise sage advice...
Always play with your food before eating it!
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
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Stroke 15: Cross The Gulf of Little Suffering
The
final leg of the journey to seduce a woman
requires you to cross the legendary Gulf of Little
Suffering. Reaching the far side of this metaphorical
body of water won't be easy. During your initial
seductions you’ll turn back, flounder and/or capsize
on jagged rocks like the Contra Fucking Concordia far
more than you'll arrive at your intended destination.
Making the crossing even worse is that your
success depends more on what you don’t do than
anything you do do.
Heh-heh, I said, “doo-doo!”
(How is it humanly possible that I spent more than
five years at university, immersed in a strictly
classical education of literature and languages—I
learned to read the Gospel of Matthew and Homer's
Illiad in the original Greek, for Yahweh’s sake!--and
still somehow turned out like a perpetual Third
grader mainlining Red Bull and sporting his first little
hard-on?!)
Be guided by our axiom that any motherfucker can
take a short amount of Great Suffering, but it takes a
true bad-ass to endure the exponentially harsher
experience of the Little Suffering.
After all, if preparing your taxes hurt just a bit
more, but didn't take as long to finish, then the
experience would qualify as a Great Suffering and
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every American would be lined up at the mailbox on
the morning of January 1st with a shit-eating grin of
accomplishment on their face.
Instead, doing your taxes doesn't hurt very much.
But it doesn't hurt very much for such a very long
amount of time, that year after year most Americans
wait until April 14 & 99/100 before wobbling
collapsedly across the finish line like one of those justwon't-quit Olympic marathoners from countries
whose names you can't pronounce.
The real grief in making it across the Gulf of Little
Suffering arises not so much from the treacherous
seas themselves as from the two pestiferous (an actual
word from the actual dictionary for a change!)
monsters who make their watery home in these parts.
Both of these lurking leviathans are already wellfamiliar to you—unless you're one of them linejumping motherfuckers who skipped straight to the
end for the “good bits” about how to get more pussy
without really trying, in which case I just wanna say
that me and the rest of the boys so look forward to
fucking all the dames that you will spectacularly fail
to seduce, you lazy fuck!
But let's still do the quickest of reviews of these
two bugaboos, since, again...the Spacing Effect.
The first monster awaiting us in the final stretch of
the seduction is our old friend Decision Fatigue—
which, as you may recall, is a measure of how much
we still suck at doing something.
The less we suck at playing a game, the less
exhausting it becomes to play it, both inside and out,
and the less Decision Fatigue we experience.
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Until then, every new choice smarts just a little.
Decision Fatigue is like the jellyfish of the Gulf of
Little Suffering--a tiny, clingy, stingy thing that
stealthily sneaks up on you and: ouch! And the closer
you come to your destination, the more stingish
become the jellyfish.
There'll be times when you find yourself well-nigh
lost in a cloud of their nettle burns.
“What's the next stroke?” you'll wonder foggishly.
Don't turn back, that's the next step. Keep on sailin'
on, my brother. With each crossing you'll suck a little
less.
And that alone is no small comfort...forewarned IS
forearmed.
The second familiar foe is Sensory Overload—
which is a measure of your crewmembers' reluctance
to leave the safe inner world of your Multiverse and
manifest themselves in your corporeal body to play a
“real” game out here in the Universe.
Sensory Overload is a bitch. It's a foul monstrosity
with bulging eyes and toxic, suction cup tentacles that
you'll either want to harpoon or flee from. Great will
be the temptation to cut loose the lines holding your
ship to the woman's and abort the seduction 'ere port
is reached.
Unwilling to endure your own flushing of face and
pounding of chest and frothing of stomach, you'll
want to make hasty goodbyes and allow your
crewmembers to retreat back into the buttery,
sensationless domain within you.
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But this is where your Captain earns his pay. He
alone can tenderly, yet firmly, require your crew to
stay the course. Your Captain can—and must—refuse
to turn back.
There's only one reason to ever abort
seduction...if you discover the bitch is crazy.
a
Never put your dick in crazy.
Baring that, don't stop—no matter how prickly,
stickly and uncomfortable become the sensations.
Above all don't seek to dissipate these feelings
through the busywork of drinking another cocktail or
getting something to eat.
You're not that thirsty. You're not suddenly that
hungry.
Sure, eating and drinking at this stage of the game
provides a Florence Nightingale-ish balm that soothes
over Decision Fatigue and Sensory Overload alike. It's
a speedy way to off-gas the excess nervous energies in
your body when you're supremely turned on.
But guess what?
Guess the fuck what?!
You're supposed
motherfucking point.
to
be
turned
on--that's
the
You want to be turned on and you want her to be
turned on. You want the mega-volts of electricity
Tesla-coiling between your bodies to be so crispity,
crackledy sparkish that if the two of you stepped in a
puddle of water you'd be instantly fried into charblackened nihilism dust.
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Resist the siren call of “busywork”—those
absolutely unnecessary actions that distract us from
being present and whose only purpose is to provide a
temporary respite from the intense sensory
expressions in our body.
Here's a sad story of dissipating nervous energy
gone too far...
You ever wonder why even the biggest names in
stand-up comedy these days scoot onto stage packing
a huge plastic water bottle, and at once set to
awkwardly twisting the top off, and before they can
even get the first joke out of their mouths the bottle's
already dancing jerkily near their lips, waiting for
anything approximating a sustained laugh, and then
they tip that baby back and drink hard and
deep...glub-glub-glub?!
What the fuck's that about? There's not a
motherfucking waterfountain back stage?! They got
that thirsty during the few seconds it took 'em to walk
over to the microphone?
Of course, you and I know the comics are simply
in Sensory Overload--because they’re taping their
fucking act--and they're trying to calm themselves
down. Bless their little tears-of-a-clown hearts, them
motherfuckers are just nervous.
Glub-glub-glub.
Still, it's hard not to cringe in embarrassment every
time you see this. Hell, you wouldn't catch an actor
on Broadway or London's West End walk out with a
water bottle in hand...
“To be”--glub-glub-glub--“or not to be.”
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Here's a good rule of thumb...
Save the eatin' and drinkin' for after the fuckin'.
You know, after you've both earned it.
For now, stay the course. And that's doubly true
for handling her. A woman will often suggest that the
two of you get a drink, grab a bite to eat or some
other excess-charge-off-gassing activity. When that
happens, your Little Prince—chivalrous chap that he
is—will want to leap in and rescue her.
He'll want to run and fetch princess a drink. He'll
want to scour the bar after the kitchen's closed for
some pickles or a bag of chips, because baby gots da
munchies. Or some other well-intentioned, but
thoroughly misguided, attempt to help the damsel in
distress feel, well, less distress.
Yet that very distress is furthering the cause of
your seduction, my friend.
That's amore.
Wait, sorry, that's Turn On.
Amore is when the moon hits your eye like a big
pizza pie.
I always get those two confused.
When your dame turns into a damsel and suggest
eating or drinking something, say to her, “Good
idea!” Then just keep doing whatever you were
doing. You are at the helm of this seduction, not her.
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I promise this is the last motherfucking time I’m
gonna mention this--but only because I’m finally
convinced that by now you truly get how fucking
important this concept is...
Both here and elsewhere, cultivating your ability
to sustain powerful sensations in your body is one of
the most important steps of your transmutation into a
great man.
Great men are willing to experience tremendous
distress in their bodies on the way to accomplishing their
current mission.
Instead of trying to make the hyper-abundant
sensations swamping your body go away the instant
you perceive them, cultivate the habit of simply
breathing into the experience.
You don't have to like it, you just have to tolerate it.
Carry this practice into all of your masculine
endeavors.
Because...
How you do anything is how you do everything.
A great man can hold the bang-buzz-wallop of the
moment in his body without trying to fix it.
Your ability to sail calmly across the Gulf of Little
Suffering without weakishly pausing to glub-glubglub is the gauge of your potential to succeed.
Wanna fuck more?
Then glub-glub-glub less!
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RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
Cross the Gulf of Little Suffering
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Stroke 16: Bring Her Naughty Girl ALL
The Way Out
Women are starved for quality attention. Most of the
sleepwalkers whose paths they cross in an average
day don't see them...or even look their way. Give the
woman you're seducing your full attention. And then
some. If you've been holding anything back, brother,
now's the time to bring it. Focus every cell of your
being on seeing her, feeling her, connecting with her
inside and out.
She'll feel your attention.
Getting attention is hot.
Look deep within her, directly into the eyes of her
Naughty Girl, and drop your voice to a playful
whisper, “Your Naughty Girl is very, very naughty,
isn't she?!”
Quite commonly she can do little more than nod in
agreement.
Add, “If your friends and family knew how
Naughty she is, they'd be shocked, wouldn't they?!”
Sit still. Wait for her response. It won't be long in
coming—and it will be almost a relief for her to
finally admit just how very naughty she wants to be.
“Yes,” she will say. “Yes, yes, yes!”
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And she'll quite possibly elaborate from there.
This can be a powerful experience for a woman
because society and its conventions have forced her to
keep the depth and breadth of her sexuality wellhidden from her family and even her friends.
Opening up and admitting just how slutty she wants
to be—which, again, is not just sluttier than you
suppose, but sluttier than you can suppose—can be as
cathartic as it is liberating.
Always—always—tell her: “That's beautiful. Your
secret is safe with me.”
Seduction hinges on giving her Naughty Girl a
space to play in and permission to play there.
Anytime she exposes herself to you—emotionally,
physically, sexually--make a fuss over showing your
approval.
You want her wrapped up in a blanket where she
feels safe and appreciated.
At the same time that you're explicitly calling out
her Naughty Girl, become heavier with your touch. If
you're standing--like I done told you, boy--then you
can easily step into her and give her some of your
body weight.
You want her to feel you. You want her to feel
your size and your strength...your angular man body
compared to her womanly curves. Connect with her
through your grounded masculine energy.
Tell her, in a voice just above a whisper, “Your
naughty girl isn't just hungry, she's starving, isn't
she?!”
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Lean in like you're about to kiss her, but don't.
Bring your lips almost to hers—then stop.
“No tongue!”
Not kissing a turned on woman is one of most powerful
choices you can make to fan her flames and turn her on
even more.
What the fuck does that really even mean—”turn
on”?! You're about to find out...
Some of our crewmembers can take the helm of
our great ship without any notice whatsoever. For
example, if you and I were to meet somewhere in the
world and you came up to me speaking Spanish or
French, then the appropriate part of me that speaks
either of those languages would jump into the breach
so effortlessly there'd be no detectable pause.
Other crewmembers, however, require some or a
lot of physical control over our bodies in order to play
their games. Therefore it takes these parts of us longer
to “get into place”, if you will.
The reason professional athletes warm up and run
around practicing before the game starts isn't to
suddenly get a little bit better at their sport, but rather
because that's the process needed to summon their
inner baseball player to take over their body
completely.
It's exactly like the human dude in Avatar. He has
to get in the pod and wait while it powers up and a
connection is made, and only then can he take over
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the Na’vi body and play their game. (Speaking of
which, when you think about that picture in the
context of everything we’ve been discussing in terms
of role-playing in other realms and guiding our inner
avatars and the like, it shouldn’t come as any surprise
that Avatar is, by a wide measure, the highestgrossing motion picture in the history of the planet.
The more than $2 billion it earned is merely a
measure of how much the experience of being
ourselves while also being in someone else’s body
resonates with, well, every human alive!)
Summing up...
Seduction is about coaxing a Naughty Girl out to play
until she takes over full control of a woman's body.
The words you use, your touch, your proximity—
all of these are tools that help her Naughty Girl get
here.
And the onslaught of sensations that can lead to
Sensory Overload are just the “growing pains” of a part of
us showing up—which is why we never want to dissipate
them.
Once her Naughty Girl is plugged completely into
a woman's body like the nice army guy in the Avatar
pod, we describe that state as being Turned On.
The more fully her Naughty Girl gets in her body,
the more turned on she becomes. The more turned on
she grows, the more ready she is to fuck.
So turn on is entirely about the physical process of
bringing her Naughty Girl our of her Game Reality and
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delivering her into the woman's body in Actual Reality so
she can play with our Lover, who's similarly taken over
control of our own body.
It's just all so magically delicious.
And now you finally know what it means to turn on a
woman!
it?
That was worth the trouble of getting here, wasn't
Wasn't it?!
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
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Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
Cross the Gulf of Little Suffering
Bring her Naughty Girl all the way out
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Stroke 17: Menage-a-Quoi?
By this stage of the seduction, I like to keep raising
the ante and coaxing a woman’s Naughty Girl into
her body until she's like an unbroken mare ready to
bust out of the gate at a rodeo, and so next I propose a
threesome.
Surprise, surprise!
Bet you weren't expecting that!
Guess who else wasn't expecting that?
The lovely lady, that's who.
Never be afraid to take the road less traveled. Surprise is
your greatest ally in the game of seduction.
Just to be clear, this isn't a metaphor or anything. I
invariably propose a threesome at this point in the
game.
Now I'm not actually negotiating for a threesome
right now—although there are many situations where
that'd be the perfect note to play. (As a general rule,
the less time that passes after meeting a woman that
you suggest a menage-a-trois, the more likely you are
to get one; right up front is never too soon...by the
time you're already dating is way too late.)
The key to suggesting that the two of you bring
another woman into your bed—pleez note the real
win we're playing for here is that it simply assumes
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the sale of also bedding this particular woman—is to
keep it as casual as possible, exactly as if you were
asking if she's ever been to Hawaii.
The structure for asking for a threesome is first to
find out if she's ever been with another woman...and
second to propose that you handle all the logistics of
setting one up as a special gift for her.
Because you're generous like that.
Here's a secret that most women and precious few
men truly grasp...
Virtually all right-thinking women find other women
attractive.
Ask her, straight up, “Have you ever been with
another woman?”
Often, it’s, “Yes.”
And if it’s, “No,” quite often she’ll quickly add
that it’s only because “the opportunity never came
up”--which is girl-speak for, “I'm too shy to ask for
what I really want.”
Again, good thing you came along, right?! 'Cause
you ain't too shy to ask for nothing! And it turns out
that you happen to have this female friend who's
really hot and who's also really shy, and you say
something like, “I'll talk to her and we'll set up a play
date.”
Just like that, you've found your new toy another
woman to play with and you've offered to take care of
all the logistics.
She will commonly be quite delighted by your
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offer to drop a yummy treat like this right in her lap.
Once more, the point isn't—although it always
could be—to finagle an actual threesome with this
woman at this moment, but rather to continue
coaxing her Naughty Girl out of the dull, sensorydeprived realm of her Multiverse into the rock-em,
sock-em action of our fuckalicious Universe by
getting her into her body and super turned on.
Of course, I actually do always have several female
lovers who are open for threesomes.
But, just as with the Grand Adventure, this stroke
works equally even if it remains a perpetual fantasy.
If you don't already have a bisexual lover who's ready
to play with another babe, then simply ask, “What
kind of women do you like? What type of woman
turns you on?”
And just to process that question, she'll grow a
little more turned on.
Once she tells you, reassure her, “I'll find the
perfect one for us and make all the arrangements.” At
which point she's happy that not only are you
offering to help her fulfill a lifetime fantasy, but
you're also willing to sign up for all the Decision
Fatigue and potential rejection of landing another
sister goddess for the two of you to play with.
What woman could possibly say no?
I mean, any woman could—but why the fuck
would she?!
Brazen adventures like this don't come along but once
or thrice in a lifetime for your average women...if that.
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“Uhhhh, what if she says that she doesn't like
chicks?”
I'm glad you asked. Frankly, that’s even better.
Merely ask her if she's ever been with two men at
once.
If she hasn't, she's damn sure thought about it.
If she has, she damn sure wants to do it again.
This is actually an even heavier fantasy for many
women because it involves being penetrated by two
men—if not at the same time, at least one after the
other.
And this is like double-swoon for a woman.
A fantastic final step here is to marry your
proposed Grand Adventure with the outrageous offer
of a threesome with another woman or man.
Just the other day I seduced a ridiculously tall
Ukrainian chick and she's already bought tickets to
come visit me at my next stop in Barcelona with the
express attention of finding a young Spanish stud to
fuck her at the same as me.
We can't do that here in London on account of her
husband or some fucking thing. Instead we need to
do it in that most mythical of places...
The Land Where It Doesn't Count.
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RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
Cross the Gulf of Little Suffering
Bring her Naughty Girl all the way out
Menage-a-Quoi?
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Stroke 18: “It Doesn't Count”
All cultures throughout history have created rules of
engagement for the opposing sexes that its members
are expected to adhere to or else risk being ostracized
or worse.
At the same time, societies have also recognized
the need for intermittent exceptions to these often
draconian rules—a few days per year where the
populace can blow off steam and just plain misbehave
without being penalized for it. If the citizenry didn't
have certain times or places where their latent
debauchery could rise to the surface without it
counting against their permanent record, their lives
would be even more intolerable than they already are.
But not everybody gets their annual vacation days
exactly during Mardi Gras, so, in our infinite human
cleverness, we've fashioned an ingenious number of
opportunities to get our freak on in situations where
“it doesn't count”.
These include...
Anything-goes cruise ships.
Entire cities devoted entirely to sexy times:
Cancun, Mexico....Pattaya Beach, Thailand...Ibiza,
Spain...Sunny Beach, Bulgaria.
Conventions, business trips or anything outside
the
100
Mile
Rule—without
which
few
businesspeople would ever get laid.
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Her: “I'm not supposed to be doing this because of
Whatever-The-Fuck.”
You: “That's okay, [insert clever nickname you've
given her], it doesn't count because we're in a
different time zone.”
Her: “Sounds legit.”
Without a doubt, the world center of “it doesn't
count” is my frequent stomping grounds of Las
Vegas. The city itself helpfully sponsors an
advertising campaign about how 'What Happens In
Vegas Stays In Vegas'. In other words, it doesn't
count.
I love Las Vegas--it's like a classy lady who'll fuck
anybody who shows up...and you know how I adore
sluts!
Exactly one year ago, when I first begin work on
this wicked little book before you—and if you've
enjoyed yourself remember to bounce over to
Amazon and give it a short, sexy 5-Star review!--I
moved to Las Vegas in the middle of summer. I
rented an apartment right off the Strip, just two
blocks behind the MGM Grand. Day after 112-degree
day I sat by the pool at the nearby Hard Rock Hotel,
mapping out the journey we've been taking together.
By night, I prowled like an uncaged beast through
some of the most fertile hunting grounds in the
world.
Even though everyone who comes to Vegas
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already knows the drill, with each woman I seduced I
made sure to point out that our dalliance wouldn't—
indeed, couldn't—count because we were in the
middle of the desert, far away from the onerous and
oppressive rules of their home turf.
Telling a woman that your dalliance together
“doesn't count” gives her an excuse to misbehave
without getting in trouble for it.
And I'm not talking about getting in trouble with
the folks back home. The “it doesn't count” is less for
them than it is for any of her other crewmembers--or,
especially, her stowaways--who try to get in the way.
The primary leverage that stowaways have on
guiding a woman’s behavior is the mess of being
caught or punished. Informing her stowaways that “it
doesn't count” because you're in the middle of the
ocean or whatnot shuts them down pretty quickly.
If there's no repercussions and no mess to clean up
later, then minor crewmembers and butt-insky
stowaways got nothing further to add to the
conversation.
And the simple truth is, it really doesn't count.
This is just sex we're talking about here--a fun,
playful, physical expression of our mutual energies
and desires. And most people need more of that in
their lives.
Telling a woman “It doesn't count” lets her know...
Nobody will find out.
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This doesn't mean she’s a slut.
It won't even make her 'numbers' go up--since, for
the record, nothing happened.
You really don’t need to make a huge production
about explaining why it doesn't count. Women
already get it...in exactly the same way they get that
when they're on vacation—and only when they are on
vacation--calories do not count.
And you certainly don't have to be in Las Vegas or
some other far-flung decadent corner of the world to
take advantage of this powerful meme. You can and
should use it anywhere and anytime.
In truth, the more random and contrived it is, the
better it seems to work.
You can say to a woman, “The awesome thing
about being here in Shreveport, Louisiana is that you
can let your Naughty Girl out to play and it doesn't
count. What happens in Shreveport stays in
Shreveport.”
Her: “I thought that was Las Vegas?”
it.”
You: “No, no, it's Shreveport now. They moved
Her: “Well, that’s good news.”
Her: “You're touching my leg again.”
You: “It doesn't count, you know, since it's not yet
midnight! After midnight it's definitely not okay to
touch a strange woman's leg, but before that it's
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perfectly fine.”
Her: “Really?”
You: “Why not?!”
I once said to a blindingly blonde MILF from
Canada:
Me: “I know you said you were married, but you
left the part of you that's married back home, didn’t
you? Seriously, you didn't even pack her for this
trip—so we can keep playing.”
MILF: “That...that actually sounds true.”
Me: “It sounds true because it is true.”
MILF: “You're going to fuck me now, aren't you?!”
Me: “Since it doesn't count, I'd be a fool not to,
wouldn't I?!”
MILF: “And you’re no fool, are you?”
Me: “No, I am not. Now stop talking and put this
in your mouth instead.”
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
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Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
Cross the Gulf of Little Suffering
Bring her Naughty Girl all the way out
Menage-a-Quoi?
“It doesn't count”
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Stroke 19: Don’t Kiss The Girl
Never kiss a woman until you're actually fucking her.
That's the whole chapter.
If you trust me, skip straight to the Blame Game.
Or if, at this late stage of the game, you still need
me to Show My Work for any of my ridonculous,
what-the-fuck-planet-did-I-think-that-up-on
pronouncements, keep reading...
Nothing—and I mean nothing—kills the possibility
of seducing a woman into your bed upon first
meeting her more certainly than making out with her.
Kissing opens two different doors with a woman,
neither one of which we ever want to open in the first place.
Behind Door #1: Kissing dissipates most or all of
the steamy sexual tension you've worked so hard to
build up with her. Kissing is the Path of Least
Sensation. Kissing is the glub-glub-glub of a comic's
water bottle—a counterproductive way to off-gas the
charge of your mutual turn on.
Making out with a woman before you fuck her is
like scarfing down an entire bag of off-brand potato
chips right before sitting down to a lavish dinner at
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Ruth's Chris steakhouse that someone else is paying
for...and finding you no longer have much of an
appetite.
Well, why would you, since you filled up on
fucking chips rather than fill her the fuck up?!
Behind Door #2: Kissing is far too intimate for the
current relationship you're developed with the
woman you're seducing. Get this and you'll get a lot...
Kissing is a portal for mate selection and a way to bond
with someone you want to play the Relationship game with,
NOT a stepping stone to having sex with a woman you've
just met.
Men think making out with a woman is First Base.
It's not.
Coaxing a woman's Naughty Girl out of the isolation of
her Multiverse and into her physical body in your shared
Universe by turning her on is First Base.
Kissing is more like striking out.
How can we be certain that not kissing a woman
before you’re fucking her is both True and Useful for
your seduction?! Here's how...
Because not a single PUA guru on the planet
endorses what I’m telling you.
Every one of them little beady-eyed, peacocked
motherfuckers will eagerly sell you their latest ebook,
audio guide and holographic-edutainment eyedrops
(they're coming...you know they're coming!) about
how to pull off their patented version of the Kiss
Close.
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It's a “close” all right, but only because most of the
time it marks the close of your seduction.
Kissing a woman you've been successfully
seducing before you fuck her is like holding four Aces
in a sweet poker game, and abruptly folding...as you
thank the House profusely for the two free, watereddown cocktails.
Here’s the part men don’t get...
Women don't experience kissing as a way station on the
road to bigger and better things...they consider it a
complete and self-contained experience unto itself.
A heavy make-out session can totally satisfy a
woman's longing for connection and intimacy. It can
fill her up so neatly that her spinal cord has no more
need or desire to experience additional sensation with
you that night.
Whereas men “select” our mates based largely on
smell and pheromones—hormones that act outside
our bodies to influence others--women make
important biological decisions about a potential mate
based largely on a man's saliva.
The moment your tongue touches hers, she
“swipes” a sample of your spittle and proceeds to run
a series of biochemical tests on it in one of the many
laboratories deep in the bowels of her ship.
A
bunch
of
geeky,
under-appreciated
crewmembers run tests on your saliva and then send
a runner topside with the results.
If you're not an exact genetic match by the fickle
standards of her onboard laboratory, then a big red
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“F” is stamped on your paperwork.
And when a woman's Naughty Girl sees that she's
gotta stop.
A big red “F” is a “No.”
That's just the way it is.
All women and no men know this.
Until now. You're the second one, after me.
Her lab's not testing for what may happen tonight
in your hotel room, it's testing for a match to service
her ovaries for the rest of her life. Either you win the
genetic lottery and the woman gets the all systems go
from her lab rats...or a big red “F”.
There's nothing in between.
Why do you think the fucking classic Shoop Shoop
Song keeps telling us, over and over again: “It's in his
kiss, that's where it is”?
Why even take a chance that you'll end up on the
losing end of this genetic roulette wheel? Why siphon
off all the delicious charge you've built up between
the two of you that's now zippity-zapping through
her body?
Not kissing a turned on woman means the heat
building up within her has no place to escape—and
so it pushes her ever closer to the boiling point.
Shall we add the next layer?
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By now, you want to keep on not kissing her AND
make a fuss about it by bringing it into Mutual
Knowledge.
Get up all in a woman's business. Bring your lips
dangerously close to hers, yet somehow never quite
get there.
Tell her, “I don't know you well enough to kiss
you yet!”
Or...
“I bet you want to kiss me, but I think we should
wait til we're engaged!”
Or simply state...
“You want me to kiss you right now, don't you?!”
When she moans or breathes “Yes”—which she so
often will--pull back and taunt her even more. “I
thought so! You are so Naughty—you barely know
me!”
Brush your lips across hers while keeping your
tongue planted firmly in your own damn mouth, if
you please.
Not only have you dodged the bullets of opening
Door #1, and dissipating all the sexual charge you so
steadfastly built up, or Door #2, and getting kicked to
the curb for out-of-your-control biological reasons,
but you're also using the very fact of NOT kissing her
to drag her Oh-So-Naughty Girl the rest of the way
out into her turned on body.
The best part?
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No other motherfuckers do this!
And, frankly, this is another one of those things
you're not gonna want to do this, either. The next
time you're out seducing a woman and you've got her
Naughty Girl all the way out into Actual Reality, you
are going to WANT to kiss her.
Badly.
Because you're instinctively aware that if you kiss
a woman much of that overwhelming, overpowering
sensation in your body will be relieved and you can
relax a bit.
Fuck relaxing!
You go on motherfucking vacation to relax...you seduce
women to wake up and become more alive than at any other
moment in your life.
When you feel the urge to kiss her, resist it.
You think it's hard for you? Well, it's even harder
for her. And the more you resist, the more she'll feel
your strength and admire you for it.
This is what playing in the big leagues feels like.
Welcome to the motherfucking Show!
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
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Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
Cross the Gulf of Little Suffering
Bring her Naughty Girl all the way out
Menage-a-Quoi?
“It doesn't count”
Don’t kiss the girl
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THE BLAME GAME
We're
closing in on the fourth and final
Checkpoint, so let's turn this motherfucker up to “11”!
By this time her Naughty Girl should be all the
way out and in state of almost breathless arousal,
while your Lover radiates an almost animal desire for
her. Take advantage of every 0pportunity to touch,
nuzzle, cuddle, hold and gently bite her. Brush your
lips against any body part you like, but continue to
refrain from making out with her until your cock's
inside her—and that's the last time I'm gonna mention
that.
Here’s a secret that I cannot for the life of me
understand why more men don’t know...
Women love turning men on.
If she gives you an erection—and if you're playing
it right, she should—then make a big fuss about it.
Take one of her hands in yours and say something
like, “I bet a lot of men tell you that you're pretty. But
those are just words, and boys lie. But you know what
can't lie? Your body. It doesn't know how to lie.”
Then quite deliberately place her hand on your lap
where she can feel your hard cock through your
pants.
Look directly at her while saying, more or less,
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“Look what you did to me! You caused that—I hope
you're happy!”
If she's turned on, she will be happy...and if she's
not, she'll punch you in the fucking face and you
deserve it for being a fucking douche. If you can't
figure out when a woman's turned on enough to
touch your cock through your pants, then you need to
go back to page one and read everything all over
again until it sinks the fuck in.
For the rest of you, tell her she is to blame for your
hard on.
On the outside she'll laughingly deny she had
anything to do with your erection, but inside...
She will love being singled out for causing it.
Women never ceased to be amazed at the workings of
the male body. How that fucking thing between our
legs fills up with blood and stays hard is one of the
great mysteries of the universe for her—and the
realization that she has the power to create and
maintain your hard on is a great turn on to a woman.
Continue to stay all up in her business. Push her
buttons. Keep blaming her for your erection.
You want to compliment a woman? Let her know
how much she turns you on. That's the kind of
compliment a woman wants to hear, all right.
Say to her, “Did you put a spell on me or
something? You're an evil temptress, aren't you?!”
Women adore when you acknowledge the powers
of their Inner Witch.
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Keep playing the Blame Game, pushing it further
and further.
After all, it IS her fault you have a raging
boner...and therefore it's not at all unreasonable to
begin setting up a scenario where she's part of its
solution, right?!
Also play the Blame Game for every indication of
turn on in her body.
Tease her by asking, “Why are you blushing?”
Her: “What? I don't know. Am I?”
You: “Your cheeks are so red and flushed. You're
totally turned on right now, aren't you?!”
Her: “Maybe.”
You: “It's okay, I won't tell anybody. It'll be our
secret!”
Bring any and every indication of turn on to her
attention—erect nipples, goosebumps on her skin,
sweaty palms, heavy breathing and engorged lips.
Hell, just make shit up at this stage of the game.
Because it is a game and you're both having fun.
I've actually said to a woman, “You're hair’s
getting shiny...that means you're totally turned on!”
All right, next it's time to close the sale. You need
to get this right, baby, because you don't want to
screw things up at this late stage of the game.
Here's another secret not in wide circulation for
pretty fucking obvious reasons...
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Every time a seduction fails, an angel gets his wings
chopped off.
You want that on your fucking conscience?!
Total elapsed time to reach Checkpoint #4: one hour
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Stroke 20: Handle The Transition To The
Party
(CHECKPOINT #4)
You've
made it to Checkpoint #4, pocketed another
12,000 points, hit a world-record total of 69,000 points,
and, from my perspective, officially become a Stud.
By the way, if you ever return to these parts to reread
my wicked little book, then you get to double it all—
double the points, double your successes, double
every-fucking-thing!
It shouldn't take you more than an hour to arrive
at Checkpoint #4, and the less you suck at playing
this game the quicker you can get here.
“What's the rush?” you may ask.
Listen, part of respecting a woman is respecting
her time. She's busy. Seduce her and fuck her
now...and if she still has time to kick it with you later
on, she will.
Don't ruin this special evening for her by taking so
long to seduce that she can no longer can fit the
fucking part into her schedule.
Recall that she wasn't planning on any of this in
the first place.
Once her Naughty Girl has completely emerged
from her internal Multiverse to the external Universe
of her physical body like Pallas Athena materializing
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fully formed from the brow of Zeus, then she's ready
to make the transition to the party.
When it's time to bounce, you need to hit these
three beats...
ASSUME THE SALE
INVITE HER TO THE PARTY
HANDLE ALL THE DETAILS
ASSUME THE SALE
Remember the Party we talked about earlier? The
one going on day and night in every city in the
world? The one you're never going to be invited to—
but to which you can always invite yourself?
Yeah, that Party.
Well, it's going on.
Tonight.
At your pad—or whatever passes for your pad on
this night.
Assuming the sale means inviting yourself to the
Party. You don't need to ask permission or approval
from anyone. You don't need to consult with any
members of her crew—least of all her Naughty Girl.
A woman wants you to take charge and take
control.
However, never let it stray far from your thoughts
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that most women under the age of 40 or so still suck at
being seduced because they've had so few
opportunities to play the game with men who know
what the fuck they're doing. Sometimes a woman will
try to grab the wheel of the ship or will rashly drop
the anchor in the middle of a parking lot.
She's rarely trying to cause trouble or derail the
seduction, she just doesn't know any better. Just like
you didn't know any better once upon a time not that
fucking long ago, so stop judging her.
Squeeze her hand or thigh or whatever you can
reach and let her know, “We're good...I got this.”
That lets her know there's nothing for her to worry
about. You're in charge and she can relax into the
experience.
Women want this.
They want men who are real men, rather than the
lady-boys who dominate the world today. They want
men who know what they want and know how to get
it without hesitation or apology.
In other words...
They want you.
INVITE HER TO THE PARTY
Now that you've invited yourself to the Party—a
step that, by itself, took me a good many years of my
life to finally pull off--it's time to invite her to join you.
Invite her to the Party as easily and casually as you
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earlier proposed setting up a threesome between her
and another woman. Simply take her by the hand and
start moving in the direction of your pad—or the
mode of transportation that leads there—and say not
this, but something like this: “Let's go to my place and
hang out a bit, [her nickname], because it will be fun.”
Notice this isn't a question, but rather a friendly
suggestion.
You've made the decision that the two of you
should level up together, and you're shouldering the
responsibilities for carrying out that decision.
The way the Masculine is supposed to.
So the Feminine can relax into it and enjoy the
experience.
Your invitation doesn't need to be elaborate,
convoluted or involve any trickery about needing to
show her something on your laptop in your bedroom.
Come over and spend time with me.
That’s all you need.
Because that's what men and women do together.
HANDLE ALL THE DETAILS
This beat really should come first. In fact, it could
even be Stroke 1. It could be Chapter 1 in the entire
book.
Before you even set out to hunt, have a clear and
easy-to-follow plan for getting your tasty gazelle back
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to your pad so you can devour her.
You must handle ALL of the details. Always.
Never ask a woman, “So...where do you live?”
Or...
“Should we maybe go to your place?”
Or, worst of all...
“What do you want to do next?”
NEVER ask a woman a logistical question at this
stage of the game that will surely plunge her into
Decision Fatigue and plunge your seduction into the
motherfucking Abyss of Nothingness.
Asking a woman to participate in the logistics of
where you’re going to fuck her will pull her straight
out of her Feminine/feeling energy and put her into
Masculine/problem-solving mode—which is not
where you want her.
You're the man: act like it.
Come over--because we'll enjoy spending more
time together.
Once the two of you are well on your way to your
chosen play-atorium, the game becomes maintaining
the intensity of your attraction without letting it grow
so big that your Beasts emerge before it's safe.
Whether in a car, bus, monorail or some highspeed pneumatic tube of the future, during the
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transition to your pad, settle your energy back into
your body. Let her feel your grounded, masculine
energy. Women want to savor the experience of how
solid you are and how certain you are of your desire
for her.
Be a man of few words from here on.
In any case, there's nothing left to say through
words. The important communications from here on
are at an energetic and physical level.
Weak men can still sabotage a perfectly good
seduction at the point by turning into Tigger—
bouncy, pouncy, fun-fun-funning with overexcitement at the prospect of sex directly ahead. Few
things in life freak out a woman more than a man
who acts way over-eager at the imminent prospect of
sex.
You want her to follow your lead here. And that
lead should be that falling into bed together is the
most natural and normal thing for the two of you to
do.
Just in case I'm being in any way unclear about my
expectations for you during the Transition to the
Party, lemme spell it out:
Calm
The
Fuck
Down
Take a chill pill and let the inevitable happen. Be
cool, my friend.
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You deserve this.
She deserves this.
And only by showing that you can handle yourself
and your excitement before sex will she trust that you
can handle her once the clothes hit the floor.
When you arrive at your chosen sexatorium, let
her get in the door and become comfortable with the
space. Her Bodyguard still needs to make sure she's
gonna be safe. Give her the “nickel tour” so she
knows there's no surprises lurking behind some
darkened door. Show her the bathroom so she can
freshen up and so she can take care of any final
negotiations with her crewmembers and stowaways
that may be required.
Now you can make her tea or pour her a drink.
However, you're not going to finish either one.
Because this is the part where you fuck her.
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
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Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
Cross the Gulf of Little Suffering
Bring her Naughty Girl all the way out
Menage-a-Quoi?
“It doesn't count”
Don’t kiss the girl
Handle the transition to the Party
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Stroke 21: Alice: The Sequel
If, at the very last moment, a woman suddenly gets a
little upset, it’s usually nothing big. If there was
something big, then you would’ve already been
Blown Out way earlier in the seduction. This is
probably just a test.
A test to make sure that she can trust you and feel
safe in the event her Beast breaks free of its heavy
cage in the hold of her ship. Her upset may take the
form of a piercing complaint about your
environment...
“Why’s it so fucking cold in here?”
“Do you not own a vacuum cleaner or what?”
Or it may take the form of an impertinent remark
directed at you...
“What are you—one of those players?”
“How many women have you had sex with?”--in a
taunting tone that somehow suggests that whatever
number you say will either be too high or too low.
The already widely known secret to passing a
woman's test is to...
Remain emotionally non-reactive.
Because...
That's the only thing she's testing you for.
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If you react emotionally—you fail.
If you actually answer her question—you fail.
If you turn into a lady-boy and try to appease
her—you fail.
Imma tell you another secret. But you gotta
promise never to share it with the leading lights of
Big Dating Advice because it would liquify their
brains faster than pouring salt on a slug. For realz, if
they learned of this secret their gray matter would
melt down like a slice of fake cheese dropped in the
toaster and they'd no longer be capable of...
Wait a fucking minute! Actually, now that I think
about it, please do feel free to share this secret with
every representative of Big Dating Advice you come
across...
Women don't test you...only Alice does.
If you're snuggling up with a woman on the couch
and she abruptly she busts out with an upset, that
means her Naughty Girl has just been elbowed aside
and Alice has temporarily taken over.
And what an adorable little sociopath she is!
If this happens--and it won’t always happen that
Alice shows up to make a last-second attempt to
derail the seduction...but it won’t never happen--then
I’d like you to just stop.
Just stop.
Don't react to whatever the woman said—
emotionally, or any other way.
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Instead, take a long, hard look at her. Not at the
woman sitting there in front of you, but at the part of
her lurking beneath the surface.
And you'll see her.
You'll see Alice looking out of her eyes—and she'll
be rather startled, because she will realize that you
can see her.
And now it's your turn to have a secret...
You know Alice better than the woman you’re with
knows Alice.
In fact, you know Alice better than Alice knows Alice.
And you're going to use that knowledge to give
her exactly what she needs. More precisely, what she
needs to hear.
What does she need to hear?
You remember, because it's virtually identical to
what your Little Prince constantly needs to hear.
Alice needs to hear that she's loved.
And safe.
And pretty.
So look at Alice—hiding in the depths of a
woman's eyes—and with all the love and safe
protectiveness you can muster, and in that completely
different tone of voice you use when speaking to a
five- to seven-year old girl rather than a grown
woman, say to Alice these two magic words...
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“You're pretty.”
These are the last two words Alice ever expected
to hear at this moment.
“You’re pretty.”
And they are the two words she most wanted to
hear. The effect will be immediate and obvious...
Deep within the woman in front of you, Alice will
curtsy in grateful acknowledgement at being seen,
and then retreat without another word, relinquishing
control to the Naughty Girl for the duration of this
ride.
Believe in my Inner RPG Model of Seduction or
don't believe in it, I don't give a fuck--just do THIS the
next time you face a woman's upset and get the shock
of a lifetime...
“You're pretty.”
Besides, this is the one time you get to tell a woman
that you're not yet fucking that she's pretty—so you
might as well make the most of it!
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
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Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
Cross the Gulf of Little Suffering
Bring her Naughty Girl all the way out
Menage-a-Quoi?
“It doesn't count”
Don’t kiss the girl
Handle the transition to the Party
Alice: The Sequel
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Stroke 22: Big Cats Play Rough
If you bring nothing else to your sexing of a woman,
bring this...
Women love being handled--everything else is optional.
Handling a woman means being completely and
utterly present with her. It means giving her the full
force of your attention. It means owning your
strength and taking charge—moving a woman
physically and sexually in the direction you want her
to go.
She yearns to be surrounded by the energetic
container of your masculinity because it allows her to
expand her boundaries and let her nastiest fantasies
out while still feeling safe and protected.
A woman loves to be handled by a man who loves
handling her.
She appreciates it when you know what you desire
and have a plan for achieving it. If you want her to
suck your cock, tell her. And don't bother saying
please.
Conquering a woman can mean playing bigger
than you've ever played before.
After all, big cats play rough.
And your Lion is the biggest, baddest cat of them
all. Or so we've been led to believe. In reality, of
course, every species of Tigress is larger, more
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powerful and more deadly than any Lion.
Here's the secret behind how the real game
between the sexes is played, revealed for the first time
ever...
You come at a woman, all strong and powerful in
your Lion. An apex predator who's going to devour
her, one ripping bite at a time. But then her Tigress
finally gets to emerges from her metal cage and the
fight can be joined at last.
From across the deck of her great ship, your Lion
smells her strength. It reeks of death. But he comes at
her anyway, rough and biting, but still playful.
She knocks him aside with a powerful blow from
her paw. Regaining his feet, your Lion squares up
with her Tigress.
Eyes lock.
Nostrils flare.
Your Lion now fears the eviscerating claws of the
Tigress—capable of slicing him from head to toe—but
he attacks anyway, with a huge roar and a swipe of
Lion paw on her ass.
He will settle for nothing less than her full
surrender. Complete and total, crawling across the
floor, 9 ½ Weeks surrender.
But the Tigress hasn't even begun to fight. Most
women won't even start pushing back until they first
feel your full strength. Only then can the battle truly
be engaged.
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And there can be only one.
Never lose sight of this certainty...
There can be only one.
And it has to be you.
Except...
It never will be.
She's stronger than you. Maybe not physically, but
in every other way. She has more endurance. More
power. More savage ruthlessness. And she has a
secret weapon: she can hold vastly more—infinitely
more—sensation in her body than you can.
Even knowing these odds, even knowing that he
cannot win, your Lion charges once more, squaring
her hips up and fucking her hard, one paw pulling
her hair hard as he growls right in her face.
There can only be one—and he intends to be that one.
You flip her over. Fuck her from behind. If you're
handling her properly, there will come a moment
where it's an outright struggle. Where she's really
pushing back with all her might—physically,
emotionally, energetically, sexually, everything.
Roars. Bites. Growls.
It's a fucking rough, sexy mess.
Don't give in. Don't back down. Fuck her harder.
Fuck her deeper. The deeper you go within her, the
deeper you go within yourself...and the more she can
surrender to you completely.
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Women crave this profoundly.
And they get to experience it rarely.
There are few moments in an entire lifetime more
profoundly fulfilling than colliding your masculine
energy directly into the full force of her deadly
femininity.
Lion against Tigress, head to head, Beast against Beast.
When you reach this point, feel into yourself and
feel into her....then give it all you've got.
Go big or go home.
This is not the time to hide from your Lion nature.
Big cats play rough because they play to win.
Knowing that he's overpowered, knowing that he
could lose—and not just lose, but fucking be fatally
eviscerated while trying—your Lion fights the fight of
his life.
And that's what the Tigress seeks...
The respect of your Lion's realization the she's the
more powerful of the two...and the courage to attack
anyway, knowing he could fail and die.
Respect.
Courage.
She expects and deserves nothing less from you.
Will this be scary for you the first time or ten?
You better fucking believe it.
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Do it anyway.
Women are turned on by men who are scared, but who
don't let their fears stop them.
And with that, her Tigress can at last--graciously
and deliberately--allow herself to submit. She can
bow down to your King of the Beasts, the ruler of the
Universe.
Because she knows and you know...
She is now and always will be the Queen of the Beasts
in the Multiverse.
Her submission is merely a sign of her power.
There can only be one, indeed.
With the battle decided, now you can fuck her
even more deeply than before. The more passionately
you penetrate her, the fewer words there are...until
ultimately there are none.
Go deep. Feel into her. And let her feel into you.
Feel her joy, her pain and her softness. Let her feel
your wounds, your fears and your vulnerability.
As you look into her eyes, you'll find yourself at
the edge of her Deep Spot.
Go there.
Look into her eyes and acknowledge her for the
unique being that she is—both in the Universe
without and the Multiverse within.
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Even as you continue fucking her, expose your
most vulnerable self through the infinite and
infinitely close space between you.
This wordless place of sharing between you contains
some of the most honest moments of your life.
Slide in and out, touch no part of her other than
the walls of her beautiful pussy with your hard cock.
Look at her and only at her. Think of her and only of
her.
Feel her...and nothing else.
This will be an unbelievably sensuous experience
for her. It will feel intimate, romantic and powerful all
at once. It's possible that you will tumble into her
Deep Spot, that you'll fall into the bottomless
vulnerability within the abyss.
Who knows what you'll find there?!
I'll tell you this much—whatever it is, nobody will
ever believe you when you come back out again and
try to explain your experience.
Oh, and if you haven't already, put your tongue in
her mouth and kiss her deeply--it's high time to do so
and you've both earned it!
RECAP:
Lions Pounce!
Say “Hello!”
Make a situational remark
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Remain standing
Praise her Look/Energy
Chitty Chat
Qualify, qualify (Checkpoint #1)
Get Entangled or bust
Create a Grand Adventure (Checkpoint #2)
Board her ship...
...or run away
Join the battle between her Good Girl and
Naughty Girl (Checkpoint #3)
Enter the metaphor
Play with your food
Cross the Gulf of Little Suffering
Bring her Naughty Girl all the way out
Menage-a-Quoi?
“It doesn't count”
Don’t kiss the girl
Handle the transition to the Party
Alice: The Sequel
Big Cats play rough
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CONGRATULATIONS, STUD, YOU'VE
COMPLETED LEVEL IV—AND THAT'S
ALL THE MOTHERFUCKING LEVELS
THERE IS!
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THE POST-GAME SHOW
Wow, I almost need a cigarette after all that! Wow,
here we are on the other side of the 22 Strokes! Wow,
you made it all the way to the end, young man.
I'm so proud of you for reaching this point, for not
getting off the fucking boat until we reached our final
port of call. In the process, you've just snagged
another 13,500 points—accumulating a handsome
total of 82,500 points.
Which means you've broken your own worldrecord and achieved your highest score on any book
you've ever read. Okay, sure, it's probably the first
and only time you've ever earned any points by
reading a fucking book, but still--high score!
And high score means...high five!
Don’t leave me hanging, fool!
Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!
With that, we're gonna let the door swing closed
on your romp with the lady who was lucky enough to
be seduced by you. If we started exploring all the
decadent possibilities and delicious permutations in
bed, we’d be here for another 500 or 600 pages.
I’m going to assume you already have a good
working knowledge of the intricacies of the female
body. If not, get one.
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If you don't know how to eat a pussy so well that
women are pounding on your door in the middle of
the night to get more, then invest the time and energy
in discovering how.
If you can't tell a woman's G-spot from her belly
button, buy a goddamn book or ten on the subject.
If you don't know how to extend, expand and
explore the female orgasm in all its infinite glory, then
figure out a way to figure it out.
Here's a fantastic place to start, a Tribe teaching
and living a practice known as Orgasmic Meditation...
www.Onetaste.us
I first learned about the practice of Orgasmic
Meditation through the bestselling 4-Hour Body, by
Timmy Lou Who Ferriss. I've spent the past couple of
years playing with the people in this Tribe, engaging
in their unique form of sensual meditation. I highly
recommend the experience—for both men and
women alike.
Meantimewise, if you've enjoyed surfing the nonstop tsunami of epistemological tomfoolery that is
THE SEDUCTION BIBLE, then write up a hawt, short,
5-Star review on Amazon to let them other
motherfuckers who think they already know
everything know how much they don't know, ya
know?!
Positive reviews weigh super heavily in the
decision-making process of potential readers these
days. I know you're super-busy, but if you could take
just a minute out of your schedule to single a sentence
about my wicked little book that could influence
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other men to undertake this journey of a lifetime, then
I'd be much obliged.
Nextwise, what's the point of FaceBook, Twitter,
SnapChat, Reddit, Vine or whatever space-age,
holographic, fully immersive social media is popular
by the time you read this two weeks from now if not
to pimp shit out for your friends?!
Pimp my shit out on your social media network,
then friend me up so I can pimp yo shit in return.
'Cause that's what motherfucking friends do, they
hook each other up...
FACEBOOK:
facebook.com/lowcarbrevolution
TWITTER:
@the_bookwright
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If you are super-mega-desirous of booking me as a
speaker for your group or convention, then the
Facebook and Twitter links above are your best bet
for connecting with me.
Since I travel the globe full time and I’m also often
at sea, I can rarely be reached via phone or text.
If you wanna schedule an interview or such for
your magazine, podcast, radio show, site, blog or
what-the-fuck-ever, we can always Skype or Google
Hangout or whatever the next big thing is.
And if you enjoyed the experience you had here,
then check out some of my other work at…
TheJohnMcLeanExperience.com
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Or don't.
You are now and always the motherfucking boss
of you!
And finally, directly ahead you'll find the muchpromised, long-awaited Special Bonus Section
containing the secret of how to ask for (and get)
anything you want.
It's some good shit. I hope you enjoy it, and I
sincerely hope you use it for good and not evil.
The more you master the 22 strokes and the Inner
Role-Playing Game Model of the Mind underlying
them, the wider and deeper your sex life can become.
And once you've got your sexuality humming along
nicely, it's fascinating how easily so many other
aspects of your life can drop into place.
Until we meet again, thanks for playing!
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SPECIAL BONUS SECTION:
THE SECRET TO ASKING FOR (and
GETTING) ANYTHING YOU WANT!
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The Secret To Asking For (and Getting)
Anything You Want.
We've now come full circle as we deliver you to the
final launching point for your steam-powered
greatness—and along with it a return to your natural
state and birthright as a superhero.
A superhero needs a superpower or two.
And it's time to get yours.
As we've already discovered, everything—
EVERYthing!--is a story. Humans do not respond on a
deep, internal level to an academic recitations of facts,
data, bullet points, fancy graphics, or mental
reprogramming.
Rather we respond to metaphors and stories. Only
once a concept takes on the characteristics of a story,
can the person we're communicating with can fully
process and respond to it.
Therefore, if we turn a request for something that
we want into a story, people are far more likely to say,
“Yes”.
And it all begins with the word Because. This
simple word has the potential to become the single
most important term in your vocabulary when it
comes to asking for what you desire, because it does
something very profound...
It builds a story around your request.
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BECAUSE, BECAUSE, BECAUSE
In 1989, a fascinating study was carried out by
social psychologist Ellen Langer to test the potential
of the homely little word, “because”.
Dr. Langer located a busy copy machine in one of
the storied libraries on the campus of fancy-pants
Harvard University. Starting at the back of the line,
Dr. Langer asked each person in front of her if she
could cut in front of them, saying, “Excuse me, I've
got five pages, may I use the Xerox machine ahead of
you?”
Somewhat remarkably, nearly half of them said
“Yes”.
Of course, the other half said “No”. But now she
had a baseline: If you politely state a request, perhaps
50% of people will go along...itself a remarkable
endorsement of asking directly for what we want.
Next, the good Professor sought to improve upon
her success by introducing the word “because”.
She ran the same drill, save with the critical
addition of a because phrase.
“Excuse me, I've got five pages, may I use the
Xerox machine...” she would say, adding, “...because
I'm in a rush!”
Now the people in line in front of her had a reason
to comply with her request. There was a story
attached to it—a story all of us can relate to, a story
about being in a rush. By simply adding “because”
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and adding a simple story, Dr. Langer found that an
incredible 94% of students let her cut in.
Only later did she stop and reflect that her story
was patently ridiculous.
After all, she was in a crowded library of a supercompetitive university during finals week. Of course
she was in a rush--who the fuck there wasn't in a
rush?! Every motherfucker in there was in just as
much of a full-blown, panicky dash to write their
papers, make copies and cram for tests as everyone
else.
This realization made Prof. Langer suspect it was
the word because that made the difference rather the
reason she gave for wanting to move ahead in line.
She theorized that students in line ahead of her
simply needed to know she had a story. If that were
true, then it didn't even matter what the story was
about. In other words, the story could be that she was
in a rush...or it could anything else.
So she returned to the crowded library for one
more social experiment in line-jumping.
For this go-round, her idea was to deliberately
make the story about absolutely nothing. So she used
the line, “Excuse me, I've got five pages, may I use the
Xerox machine ahead of you...because I have to make
some copies?”
The even more mind-blowing result?! Basically the
exact same number of people reacted favorably to this
new version as before—93% versus 94%--despite the
fact that she offered them the Seinfeld of reasons, a
reason about nothing!
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Of course she was there to make copies, that's what you
DO with a Xerox machine!
This was like asking people ahead of you in line at
the local McTacoHut, “May I go ahead of you,
because I'm hungry?” Well, naturally you're hungry.
We're all hungry. Who the fuck would walk through
the doors of a fast food joint if they weren't starving
half to death?!
By the way, the professor's successes in linejumping weren't attributable to her great beauty or
personal charisma, of which I am sure she is
plentifully blessed in both departments. She later
reproduced her experiments using males and females,
some pretty, some not so pretty, some younger, some
older—and found no difference in the 0utcomes.
USE “BECAUSE”...BECAUSE IT WORKS
From now on, whenever you make a direct request
of anyone, whether during the context of a seduction
or elsewhere, always include the pivotal word
“because”.
Even though the story that comes after the because
really doesn't seem to matter, whenever possible I
personally like to make the story about the person
you're communicating with rather than about
yourself. After all, cultivating the habit of putting
your attention on others always makes for better
communication.
You can accomplish this by imagining a possible
benefit for the person you're making the request
of...then just putting it after because.
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For example, one might say, “Do you want to just
give me a warning, officer, because that will be less
paperwork for you to fill out?!”
Each and every time I invite a woman to come
over and play with me or go on a Grand Adventure,
after the initial request I add, “...because you deserve
to have fun” or “because it'll be hot” or “because
you'll enjoy yourself”.
Something simple that benefits them is all you
need.
THE ENTIRE REQUEST
So we covered the second part first, since the
because phrase obviously comes at the end of
whatever you're asking for.
Now let's go back and fill in the beginning.
Before I reveal the full and complete secret of
asking for whatever you want, however, I need to
point out that, like all great superpowers, it comes
with great responsibilities. Knowing how to ask for
what you want and getting it assumes that you've
taken the time to explore what you really want in the
world.
Only use the secret I'm about to share with you
when you are genuinely expressing a burning desire
of yours.
And only use it to make requests of others that are
in the best interests of you both both. Remember,
none of us live in a vacuum. Our actions always have
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consequences. Don't ask for anything that the other
person will later regret saying, “Yes” to.
Deal?
If you’ll pinky-swear to these two caveats, then
here we go, brother! Imma present this secret to you
as a formula, because that's really what it is--a
formula for making a request in a single sentence
with a very high likelihood of a positive response.
HEAD TILT + REQUEST + NAME
+ BECAUSE PHRASE
Let's quickly break the formula down, then put it
back together again and send you on your way, shall
we?!
HEAD TILT
As you begin asking someone for what you want,
tilt your head to one side.
Nobody knows for sure why tilting your head to
either side dramatically improves your chances of a
positive response, but it's quite well-documented by
social scientists that it works. (The best guess is that
tilting your head serves to make you more attractive
to the other person because it hides any asymmetries
in your facial features, which makes you appear more
trustable.)
But, whatever...just fucking do it this way, my
man, because it works!
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The first time you tilt your head to one side as you
ask someone a question it may feel sorta awkward.
But you know what else feels awkward?! Every other
thing in your whole life when you did it for the first time!
The head tilt is an essential part of the secret to
asking for (and getting) anything you want, so always
include it.
THE REQUEST
Naturally, this is whatever you're asking for.
Once more, because you'll dramatically increase
your odds of receiving a “Yes” by using this formula,
please only ask for things you genuinely desire. And
don't ever be mean or selfish or hurtful when using
this.
Ever.
Please.
NAME
Insert their name—or the clever nickname you
fashioned for her--between the request and the
because phrase. Why? Again, because it works! I
texted one of my lovers in Austin once: “You wanna
go out and pick up another woman tonight, Alanna,
because then she and I could both eat your pussy?!”
(BTW, she said yes...and we did...and we did!)
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BECAUSE PHRASE
The because phrase technically can be anything at
all, but I personally prefer to make it about the person
you are asking (i.e., a potential benefit for them) if
possible.
PULLING IT ALL TOGETHER
Here are some examples. Remember, all of these
start with a Head Tilt to one side or the other.
“Would you like to make an offer on this house
today, Stephen...because you're going to enjoy living
here?”
“Should I stick my cock in your ass now,
Lindsay...because it will feel so good?”
“Do you want to join our strange cult,
George...because then we can drain your bank
account?!” (Use this one sparingly!)
Once more...
Head Tilt + Request + Name + Because Phrase
Now that you have an official superpower, you are
officially a motherfucking superhero. Now go embark
upon your next Epic Quest and make the world a
better place!
THE END
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