#44: Walk of Shame

Nine and O, rang out in my head as V and I turned into Covent Garden on Saturday afternoon. The sets had been coming at a good rate but with no fruit to bear. It’s amazing how many more sets there are now that the weather has cleared up. A month ago I was walking around doing one set an hour, now I could easily do five. And what great weather for Daygame as well! Just warm enough so that I didn’t need a thermal or jumper, but cool enough for my leather jacket. But even with the increased workrate and perfect conditions, I was still being dealt bad hands. There’d been a few blowouts, and a fair few interested but unavailable sets; I guess that girls are still shaking off their winter boyfriends in London. At this point, I was ready to jump on anything.

We went down the slope by the station and into the market, then turned left towards the Theatre Royal. It was at this point that my eyes were drawn to two things: swinging hips and red lipstick. I couldn’t catch much more of Cait because the crowd quickly closed up behind her.

“Hmmm”, I said, raising a hand to my beard and considering the set; I hadn’t seen much more of her than that.

“Yeh?”, V replied.

“Yeh, I think I will”.

I jogged off along the pavement towards the red lipstick and swinging hips and waited for the pedestrians around her to give me an opening. One eventually came up just outside of Balthazar so I dived in. IOIs aside, I appreciate it when she doesn’t see me before I approach. It gives me all the time I need to pick the right time and space. The downside comes when I wait too long and she goes into a black hole or meets her friend.

“Excuse me, I just wanted to come over and say something very random”. She smiled in anticipation. “I thought you looked like a spy with these glasses. That’s just what came to mind. You have these on and you’re walking around collecting evidence”.

“Haha! Thank you! You’re right this is very random”, she replied in an American accent.

“Do you mind?…”, I let the question hang as I gestured for her to take the glasses off. This was the moment of truth…

Time stood still as her hand moved in slow-motion, pushing the glasses to the top of her head. I screwed up my face in fear…

Crow’s feet! FUCK! She didn’t look “old old” but she was certainly at least as old as me. I’d say she was a low 6; maybe in her prime she could have pushed into the 7 bracket. I was immediately disheartened, but somehow she missed it. I’m convinced that people can detect that moment of slight disappointment. Usually, for me, after that moment, the set fizzles out, but we chugged along nonetheless. Considering how I’d noticed her hips and lipstick to begin with, there’s a fair chance that she might have seen it and disregarded it anyway.

I was posed with a dilemma: should I continue and go for the number or just wish her a good day? Well, I’ve done the approach, I might as well go for the number, I thought. I went for it and a significant part of me hoped that she would make the day a complete whitewash: ten and O. Part of me wanted her to say that she was unavailable and wouldn’t give me her number, but lo and behold, she enthusiastically agreed to my suggestion of “a drink another time”.

Mazz and I often joke about opening a girl and realising that you’re not all that into her, and then she complies at each point and you invest more time into fucking her. It’s a great example of the sunk cost fallacy. In this case I got five minutes into the set and thought that since I’d already invested the time and effort to get here, I might as well make the next step. The right choice in the moment was actually just to walk away.

After returning to V to give the cliff notes of the approach, I made a mental list of what I’d be willing to do to close this girl. Firstly, I would only do two dates if the second involved her coming straight to my house. Secondly, I would only meet her for the first date if we met near my house. If she’s horny, which I think she is, then spending a couple of hours with her on an otherwise sleepy Sunday night was a good choice.

The texting was very straightforward; I closed her at 2:30pm and had agreed a date for the following night by 5pm. Just to be sure, I let the conversation hang overnight into Sunday so that I could test if she was still responsive after the bubble had burst. She responded very quickly on the Sunday: Game on.

We both showed up at the station at exactly the same time. She was wearing tight black jeans with a light, cream blouse, finished with a leather jacket. I see this outfit all the time on my dates and I think it’s the girl trying to copy my look: a very good sign. When I see that outfit on any girl I mentally increase the odds of the lay that night immediately. Then again, she was American, so I already had high hopes. I’ve found with American girls that they give off a tonne of false positives, for example, one girl literally reached out and touched my hair once, but then never came out on a date. Then once you have their number, you have to get them out in record time. Their attention spans seem to be disastrously low. The flipside is that if they do actually come out, the chance of the lay is astronomical.

I led her down the street to a saloon style restaurant which I wanted to trial. It was just for drinks, but I wanted to see if the place would work in my date plan. It has a good rock’n’roll vibe which matches my look but isn’t dark and seedy. Unfortunately, the seating was bad so I decided against using it in future. In the end we sat outside under the heaters, where I could get a good right angle going, and did the usual get to know you conversation. Every so often I’d spike by correcting her American pronunciation and over-egging my Englishness.

I noticed that she kept on fiddling with her hands and her leg sometimes bounced up and down: a good sign of sexual energy. Because of that, I decided to test the waters a little bit, and began kino escalating by asking her about instruments she played and then touching her hands. Then I stood her up to check how tall she was. She followed my lead decently, I’d say she was giving me strong amber lights, so when I got her to sit right next to me to look at some pictures, I pulled her in for an early kiss attempt.

“Woah, not yet”, she said.

Time for a standard recovery loop. “Fair enough, I’m the man, it’s my job to try”.

“That’s right”.

We finished our drinks and walked to a cocktail bar further up the high street and closer to my place. I sent her to get the seats but when I came over, they weren’t the seats I used every single time I go there.

“No, no, no, not these ones”. I directed her to a little alcove in the corner and we sat down.

“How romantic”, I said while smirking and plonking a little tea candle on the table in front of us.

I continued the kino escalation and asked her about a little anchor tattoo I spied on the inside of her arm.

“I got this to show that I had to cross the Atlantic to live here”. Okay, she didn’t say those exact words, there was some poem or some meaning in there but I can’t remember.

“When did you get it?”.

“On my last birthday”.

“Aaaand which one was that?”. Another moment of truth.

“I’ve actually just turned 30”.

Savage.

She asked how old I was and we played a little guessing game before eventually I told her that I was 25. Urgh. I’ll touch on this point at the end but just to give you a headstart: I wasn’t proud of myself.

Having upped the kino again, I wanted to go for another kiss attempt. I went to pull her in, she shrugged, and said “oh okay then”, and went for it. But when we leaned back there was still a little gap between us; I could tell that I hadn’t got proper compliance yet and that bouncing her now would be a proper leap of faith.

“Another drink?”, I suggested.

“Can I get this one?”, she asked.

“Err yeh”. Of course you can dear.

When she came back I started the Questions Game to test her responses to sexual questions, but it came with some unexpected results.

“So what turns you on?”, I asked, sipping my Dark & Stormy and eyeing her over the rim.

“I don’t know how to describe it but… feminism”.

Savage.

“Now now, remember that I told you that my mother said never to talk about politics or religion with a girl”. Thanks to Roy Walker for that one. It successfully deflected her.

“But really, what turns you on?”, I asked, pressing forwards.

She thought about it again. “Probably when a man can make me stop thinking”.

“Ahh okay, I understand”, I replied knowingly, “so you like it when this part of your brain”, I pointed to the back of her head, “takes over this part”. I concluded by pointing to the front of her head.

“Mmmm”, she nodded sagely.

“Your go”.

“Okay, what’s your favourite book of all time?”. Well, that wasn’t sexual at all.

“Hmmm”, I thought about my answer, “it’s not my favourite book of all time but the one that probably changed me the most is Atlas Shrugged”.

“Oh!”, she stuttered, desperately trying to reframe my answer, “so you are quite an individualist then!”.

“That’s true, but I also agreed with literally everything in the book”. She seemed astounded.

“My go!”, I declared triumphantly. “Do you want an easy question or a hard question?”.

“Hard”.

“When was the last time you had sex?”. I looked away into the dark cocktail bar to balance the pull with a push.

“Hmmm, about three months ago… That’s so bad!”. Huh?! America is a fucked up place.

I let the game peter out because I knew that the sexual context was clear. Over the course of it I’d also been shifting her closer to me, and had my arm around her. We were thigh to thigh and I had kissed her a few more times. Time to bounce.

“Let’s go!”, I declared.

As we walked down the street we kept up some inane chatter but she hesitated just as we got to my doorstep.

“Is this your place?”, she asked.

“Yeh, I thought we’d have one last drink and listen to some music”.

“Okay, but just to let you know this isn’t going to be a sex date”.

“Yeh, yeh, yeh”, I dismissed her and turned towards my front door to unlock it, before leading her upstairs. Even though I know it’s all part of her plausible deniability I’m still a little disheartened when I hear girls say stuff like that; it’s just because I’ve gone through so many near misses now.

First I went to the bathroom then poured a couple of drinks while she did the same, then we plonked ourselves down on my sofa and listened to some trance-y house music on my speakers. We talked a little, then she set her drink down. I pulled her into me, no LMR of course, she was Gaming me, but I was still a little hesitant, and moved carefully up the sexual escalation ladder. Once she was breathing heavily I gestured for her to straddle me and I knew it was onnnnnn…

“Your pussy’s so tight”, I said as viciously fingered her. And do you know what? It really was tight. Oddly tight.

The sex was nothing special, and she just didn’t get into the dominance very much. She bled a little on my bed as well…

“My tight pussy is a blessing and a curse”, she said while nuzzling up to me. What a sound bite, I thought. She wouldn’t let me record her saying it though.

I thought she might have been on her period, considering the sway in her walk, but it didn’t have the dark red colour to give it away. And there wasn’t much of it either, just a couple of splotches on the sheets. I suppose her apparent horniness must have come from her not having sex in three months. In the PSI I tried to ask her how many guys she’d had sex with but she demurred, which added weight to the “not on her period but my cock was too big for her little pussy” theory. I assumed her true number was astronomical, so for her to go three months without dick… what a trooper.

We went back to the living room to finish our drinks; I’d fucked two separate girls on Friday and Saturday night (#42 and a regular) so wasn’t up for seconds. We started talking about men and women and I started to see her left wing ideology creep in, but I quickly shut it down and began a little lecture. She wasn’t combative to my ideas and I think that goes to show how leftists are much more reasonable when they’re on their own; they’re much more likely to listen compared to when part of a mob. When they’re part of a mob, that’s when they become maniacs.

I didn’t feel any disgust towards her (this has actually happened in the past and then I purposefully blew the date), but I didn’t feel any pity either. More like indifference. I could see how she’d dedicated her life to masculine pursuits (she was a lawyer) and she said that it would be a long time until she settled down. I genuinely thought she was a nice person but had made the wrong choices. It was like seeing the Manosphere’s worst ideal for a woman, but I didn’t care much. I’m not going to try and convince her to change; let her make her own mistakes.

So I got the +1, but at what cost? Well at least I didn’t break the rules I’d set myself. She’d come straight to me and hadn’t been much work. Just a couple of recovery loops and a little bit of Game to deflect unwanted conversations. So quite low cost. But was I proud of myself? Absolutely not. At the end of the day I got my +1 and that was it.

I want to stress that this lay report wasn’t written for bragging purposes; I promised to document my first 100 lays from the worst to the best, and be honest along the way. I think that anyone in that 100 club who says that he hasn’t had any questionable lays is lying. The problem is if they become a regularity, something I absolutely must avoid. It’s like getting an amber light from the Game: proceed with caution.

Here’s some music to play me off…

Yours unfaithfully,

Thomas Crown