I can’t be bothered to go on a fucking date anymore. The whole thing has just become so joyless. And it’s not them; it’s me. There are plenty of nice attractive girls. I get unsolicited OKCupid messages from them. It would be so easy. But… fuck it.
There was an old episode of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION. Or maybe DEEP SPACE NINE. What happens is, the Klingon messiah from thousands of years ago comes back to life. Kahless. And there is debate among the Klingon community as to whether it’s the real guy, or merely a clone. As one would expect with Klingons, words are not enough to settle the dispute and there has to be a ritualistic duel of champions with crazy crescent shaped two handed knives.
So the pro-Kahless and anti-Kahless guy are having this grim battle with the knives; sour, determined faces, cunning and strategy; and Kahless steps in and is like- “what the fuck is the matter with you guys? You are taking no JOY in this! We’re Klingons! We fucking LOVE fighting– you guys look miserable!”
That’s what internet dating feels like to me now. And dating at large. I love dating; I love women, but it’s become just this rote, mercenary thing, you know. It’s become an assembly line. Find girl. Message girl two to three sentences exactly– longer messages and shorter messages get far fewer responses. Fifty per cent of the time they respond, almost always continuing whatever joke I made. I “cut the thread,” say some other funny thing that is unrelated, and ask for the number. Fifty per cent of the time I get it. Ten minute phone call on the drive home a day later. Propose a specific plan. A specific bar on a specific night, and the bar is a place close to my house that serves artisanal beers with undetectably but shockingly high alcohol content; three of them will get any girl into the fuck zone. Go for the makeout on the second cigarette break. Walk her to her car and ask her to drive me home. Ask her to come inside. Get her inside, more making out, more booze, get her into bed, eat her pussy till she gets horny enough to let me put it in unprotected. She’ll ask if I have condoms; of course I don’t.
Keep trying, but if no fucking happens, second date. Or if fucking happens and you like her, second date. Chicken at my house. If she didn’t come back to my place the first time, the second date gets her in the house. Get her in the house, get her drunk, fuck her. Over and over and over again. I don’t have a rote third date plan because it almost never gets to a third date, and if it does I don’t want to actually do anything with her. I just want her to come over and fuck me. Or go to her place and fuck her if she has cable.
I certainly don’t want to go hiking or to the beach or bowling or to a movie or to introduce her to my friends. None of the people I’ve met have felt worthy of that.
So I get burned out and bored and I stop going on OKC for a while until it’s been about six weeks since I last fucked a new woman, and then I jump on again and repeat the whole process. It’s always completely predictable and the girls all feel like the same person. One woman, different faces. About fifteen minutes into the drinks part of the night I give up on the idea that they’re going to amuse me or wake me up in some way.
What it is is, for a girl to actually connect with me she would have to flip the script. She would have to be such a strong personality that she would control the night. She would be coming up with shit to do and lighting up my mind with jokes and anecdotes. But I am terrified of having the script flipped on me because you think, as a guy, that if you lose control of the “frame” the girl will immediately have contempt for you. You can never show any weakness, ever; you have to be on top every motherfucking second, and if you even for an instant show any vulnerability or openness or if she’s ever leading you rather than being led, you are instantly a eunuch in her eyes, now and forever. It’s strong game with these girls, or it’s nothing.
And game works. No denying it. Especially the new game we have now, this second wave of game. The Roosh’s, Chateau Heartistes and etc. Game based on overarching fundamentals, not a script. Game where you don’t need a god damn whiteboard and John Madden drawing X’s and arrows to tell you when 3 “IOI’s” have been spotted and to move from “A3” into “C1” by “isolating.” Game where you don’t have a have a scripted “opener” and and canned “DHV” stories and etc. Where you don’t have to briskly walk ahead of a girl without seeming like you’re trying to and fire off a “false time constraint” askance over your shoulder while juggling flaming bowling pins on a fucking unicycle going across a tightrope. That old game, what people think of when they think of “game,” was a tangled morass of D & D rules spawned by nerds on 1990’s usenet boards pooling their Aspergian data in search of a magic wand that would get them a “number close.”
The new game is about the principles you first fear and then grudgingly accept as you get experience with women: apathy is power with them; they love being submissive, being led; and basically, the better you treat them the worse they treat you. But like all dom/sub relationships, it comes back to the dom conforming to the arcane pain-in-the-ass whims of the sub. The dom is doing all the work and vigilantly staying within a narrow confine of unnatural behavior so the sub can lay back and enjoy the abuse.
Anyway. What were we even looking for out of life? Was it pussy, or was it happiness? Was it victory with your two handed crescent shaped Klingon knife, or was it the joy of battle? You thought the former would bring you the latter, but eventually the process you have to master to get pussy means you are so apathetic to pussy that pussy can no longer make you feel anything. You become an old hack and your romantic life, which is supposed to be a respite from the cruel mechanical world of work, just becomes a second job. And the better you get at it, the less pleasure it gives you. Getting laid constantly just becomes the bathwater and you get used to it, and you find some other area of life to be miserable about.
delicioustacos 
Consider that the girls don’t feel any better either. She’s just had unprotected sex with an asshole, and maybe chicken and rape games is what she wanted, but I’m sure there are those girls who leave with thwarted expectations of finding a warm human being underneath the prickles, of catching a glimpse of some soft underbelly. Instead, she’s entered a prefabricated date that might as well be made in China; there are no jokes or anecdotes she can tell against the “script” that is imposed upon her, she’s been pre- judged and sorted like produce from the moment she walked into the dimly-lit room. In the morning, you’re miserable about the pussy you got, and she’s probably taking a scalding shower at home.
To be fair, my chicken is amazing.
Dude, I don’t know if you have any interest in writing for TV comedies, but you’d be fucking great. I’m not being a sarcastic asshole, I’m serious. You already work in the business, so I’m assuming you know a bit about how to get started. Write a dark comedy spec and get on that shit.
This is brilliant. And rather alarmingly accurate.
Brilliant. And true.
I went from finding that, to going for other way to find highs. Traveling. Now that’s becoming “just another place”. Extreme sports, finally turned into “ahh, didn’t die, good.” Business is next. Meh.
One of the better takedowns on ‘game as salvation’ I’ve read as of late. The worst part is, like you said, is that you can’t fuck with formula either. I got so used to successfully applying the general principals in early dating stages that I decided to fuck with the formula as of late with one girl to see what would happen: ie show more passion about seeing her, be more open ect. Her attraction to me disappeared almost immediately.
Take it from a guy who achieved a dream of joining a really good band at age 28 after years of musical frustration. Those first initial shows are amazing, with the thrill of performing onstage and the newfound attention from the ladies fulfilling all of your dreams. Only a short year later, however, it all becomes just another routine. Playing 20 shows in 30 days in shithole clubs and funneling off to the next city immediately afterward takes strips most of the glamour away.
Here’s the thing, though: I still love it and couldn’t imagine doing anything else, because even nine out of ten shows suck, that tenth amazing show brings it all back to what you loved in the first place. The rare moment of a spectacular experience; that’s what you should still be getting from game too. Maybe say eff OKcupid and hit the bars or something?
Or maybe It’s hard to find life fulfillment from a single purpose. One thing’s for certain, however: I’ve cherished successes with women and music far more than any success I’ve had at a fucking desk job.
It’s worse than you think.
Multiple your experience across the 6 billion living human population for everytime they interact with a member of the opposite sex, then extrapolate back the thousands of generations of human existence or even further 500 million years back to the origin of sex.
That’s how many zillion times the same boring game has been run.
Misery is a state of mind. You can move somewhere else, if you’ll decide to do so. Rather, to insist on constructing and lamenting this emptiness. You have accepted a paradigm for getting something you want which has taken the longing away. And so you accept another misery that you have figured out, chosen, built. And you don’t want to do without that mathematical pussy despite that it has become spiteful to you lest you sacrifice your aching, self detracting sense of masculinity to something you have developed from your own thoughts, self reflection, strength, and vulnerability.
You are concerned with what “they” think and how they prejudge you though you are operating from stereotypes. See individuals–yourself, the next date–rather than examples of subset x and be open to seeing something other than what you expect. And why not–besides your comfort zone–since you seem to so consistently expect misery, a continuation of the same demeaning cycles.
She knows the game and so do you. Do you dare to surprise yourself? Her? You are a genius at this statistically comforting getting laid game. All due applause.
Might an old dog teach himself a new trick when the old ones are leaving him starved, flea bitten, and mangy?
Jump over the fucking fence, DT!
This is an amazing piece. I especially appreciate your take on the dom / sub role.
If I had wanted to be a “domme” woman, I would have had a lot of guys after me. But being a “dom” is too much fucking work!
Well written with a wonderful Klingon death-fight reference. Kudos
This is pretty depressing. Sounds like you’ve forgotten why you like sex, or how to let go and enjoy it. Being in control all the time/fucking by a script sucks…although it’s possible you’re bored with having drunk, sloshed, uncreative partners. Maybe take a step back and really ask yourself what sex means to you as a person. Or not. It’s all up to you.
Take care of yourself…
http://tarnishedsophia.wordpress.com/2013/08/05/what-is-sex/
Someone smarter than I once said, “Turn a woman upside down and they are all the same.” I’ve never run into a woman that refutes that observation. But hey, as long as you can do what you need to with what you have (or she has), who cares?
I mean, I’m in it to f**k her and enjoy life – so as long as I get off, I’m happy overall. I like to see how far she will go – okay, we had sex, did oral and shot in her face and had her rub it in before going on a date, did anal with her even though she claimed it was her first time… Rinse and repeat… It’s all variations on the theme – as long as they don’t sprout a cock, or a third-head – I’m good… What more do you want? Harps and Angels? You get your rocks off, and go searching for the next target of opportunity – the man who dies with the most notches wins…
fuck, tacos.