I was talking to my mate SalsaLord the other week about, wait for it, Game. SalsaLord is not a convert but I sense he is a little Game-curious. When I explain a few basic Game principles I can sense he’s interested but he shows a lot of LMR in progressing any further and has a mental block about going so far as to read any Game-material.
Asking him why and understanding his viewpoint I was reminded of how I used to feel many aeons ago. SalsaLord’s philosophy is that he believes he’s a nice guy: high value, clever, funny, a talented musician, bilingual, etc, all the right stuff, and he is quite happy with himself. Why, therefore, should he have to revert to any ‘tricks’ whatsoever? If he meets an intelligent woman with the right value system then he’d be doing himself an injustice. He should just be himself! He really respects his dad, thinks his dad is a great bloke and his dad didn’t go round chasing birds and posturing and his dad got his mum, who is a great woman. QED.
It brings a tear to my eye hearing this sweet philosophy outlined. If I had my way he’d get chatting to the pretty girl on the train next to him tomorrow and that would be that. But the sad truth is that awesome guys like him spend years single. And possibly slowly become filled with burning resentment towards women and harbour fantasies of taking terrible revenge.
How your Dad pulled your Mam
It just so happens my dad was a 1960’s PUA with outrageous Game but I’m sure plenty of you have nice, Steady-Eddie, sweet ole dads with zero Game and lovely wives. Maybe you once looked at the wedding pics and saw your dad in his corduroy suit and mutton-chop sideburns and were amazed at how thin and shining your mum looked. How did dad and his mates do it? They all had girlfriends from when they were young and here you are, smart as a whip, and sitting reading blogs while the celtic tattoed, bleached blonde hair thickos are out with their wimmin.
For a start back then there were less men. Nazis, coal mines, fishing fleets, asbestos. After that consider there were just more people. The post war baby-boom meant that when your parents were in their twenties there was just an awful lot more other kids their own age. White people actually had children back then. In bulk. Not the little wheezing autistic specimens popped out by forty year old women to live isolated only-child lives that you get nowadays.
Ontop of that people actually worked less and moved away from home less and had massive social circles. When they did go out they actually had more frequent and genuine contact with the opposite sex. I remember once, yonks ago, telling my dad I’d been ought to a nightclub. “How many girls did you dance with?” he asked. “Er”none” I replied. He stopped dead and looked at me like I was an idiot. “None?” he asked incredulously, “what’s the point in going then?”. I laboured to explain to him, haughtily, that he didn’t understand that these days people went to clubs with their mates, drank a lot and maybe milled around with their mates on the dancefloor. “You mean” my father asked slowly and with disbelief “that men dance with their mates in nightclubs?”. He then mockingly explained how him and his friends used to go to ‘Tea Dances’. Scoff not. These things used to take place in church halls or social clubs. They were free. There’d be a row of fifty odd twenty year old girls in their dresses on one side, and forty-eight men in their beatle-crushers on the other. The girls were all terrified of not being asked to dance. All the men did all night was walk over, ask a girl to dance (and it was considered impolite to refuse) and then take her on the dancefloor and dance with her. Proper, old fashioned dancing where you actually put your arms round the other person and your body touches theirs, and where the man guides the woman about. Not standing opposite each other ‘dancing together’ without actually physically touching. “How many girls a night did you dance with?” I asked my dad. “All of them of course” he said. One night, fifty girls. And the men got to choose. A church hall and a record player. We’ve got it wrong somewhere haven’t we?
So we’ve got more youngsters and more women, and we have the men calling the shots. Ontop of this the women are fitter. Not the pock-thighed corpulent flip-flop wearing pigs that waddle round these days. We’re talking post-war, pre junk food thin. Spanish thin. Women you could actually swing up into the air with ease. Ontop of this we have a social order where women feel they have to get married. They are desperate to get married and if you hit twenty-five and are single you are over the hill. We’ve also got a non-existance of feminism and the grotesque media saturation that we have these days selling women lies of misery and making them totally confused so that they don’t know what they want. Not just women, everyone. Men are as confused as well. People back then had less and were happier. In those days a nice presentable lad with a decent job, maybe apprentice draughstman at the town hall, good sense of humour, kind to children, well he was a catch!
The problem now
Oh dear oh dear. How times have changed. Poor women with their easily confusable brains are now drowning in social conditioning. Girls who are maybe nice ‘underneath’ carry a thick layer of crap crusted on them. They want this, they want that, they want it all. Most importantly our increasingly femo-centric society gives young women a grotesequely unrealistic sense of self value. In other words girls who went for your dad back in the day wouldn’t wipe their backsides on your hair if they were caught short without a tissue. In one way, however, some social conditioning has been removed. Women no longer think they have no purpose or choice than an early marriage and kids and a life of domestic bliss/servitude. Although I think feminism is evil and I actually think most women would be happier with three kids swarming round their feet than spending ten years working up to be a senior recruitment consultant at Hays I still passionately believe in equality of opportunity. Opportunity, not outcome. The only problem is it’s gone beyond this into brainwashing and women are too stupid to realise it till they’re fat and thirty-four. Kind of like the way lots of nerdy middle class boys like me think the most important thing in life is to succeed in the workplace and are too stupid to realise this is rubbish until we’re fat and thirty-five. Most of us would be happier having sex with a few dozen hot women, finding one really nice girl and having a family.
Why lying is OK
SalsaLord thinks Game is lying. Some of it is. To me I don’t think of it as lying. It’s window dressing. It’s just how you present yourself. It’s an act. It’s not really you. Look at it this way: you are in this mess probably because of the way you’ve been socially conditioned. You currently are not emitting pre-selection, which is desperately important to women as it’s in their chemistry. How can you break out of this without faking it to make it? You can’t unless you get lucky. And here’s the rub, if you tell white lies and make yourself look high value and attractive, the woman is going to be an awful lot happier as now she gets to hook up with a guy rather than going home alone. You’re not lying to her, you’re just getting your just playing by the neccessary rules of the social machine which has buggered things up for you both so far. Just wing it for a little bit and after a few months it won’t matter.
Don’t take the interaction too seriously either. It’s all a bit of a front at the beginning anyway. It’s verbal jujitsu. It’s sparring. As Hoobie brilliantly says in Transformations you just need to stop her grabbing the wheel and ditching the car off the road long enough to get to the destination because when you’re there she’ll be really happy. Look at it this way. Are you watching? This really blew my mind. Ok… all single women want to hook up. If they’re talking to you and smiling then you are physically acceptable enough for them. They WANT you to succeed. Oh yes. They WANT you to be a guy worthy enough for them. So, SalsaLord, wake up. Buy the Mystery Method, learn a few basics and work on your Game and don’t take it too seriously. Remember, each time you tell a tichy porkie, maybe DHV yourself by pretending your ex was a model, etc, you’re doing this to make her happier. In a few months she’ll thank you for it, like a dog with discipline or a fat kid put through a military bootcamp.
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