[+]HaCkED BY ./iNviSibLe NaMe[+]
./JusT WannA say Hi
The world is change> Insta: ZG0 :
I describe the unsettled life and troubled times of the typical 20 year old who can become interested in dating a man. When you understand her you only need to know, on average, younger ones are worse in every way, better in none. The older ones are better in every way, worse in none.
Double the general disarray of this 20 year old’s life for a 19 year old. Quadruple it for an 18 year old. If she’s still in high school, multiply by ten.
For each year past 21 her problem is reduced by twenty five percent. A 23 year old living away from home has eliminated two thirds of the 20 year old’s negative situation, if she has no kids. With even one, her problems are twenty times greater than any 18 year old’s.
A couple of years out of high school her old world falls apart. Friends move away or marry and have kids, others stay at college all year. She’s standing with one foot in the teen-age world, the other in the adult world, at 20.
However, a female of 22 retains all the good qualities of being young but has discarded most of the baggage and burdens of youth. With her enlarged sense of self she’s much simpler to deal with, requiring far less time and energy on your part initially and throughout the affair. But, I had to find out for myself about 18 year olds. You will too, probably.
THE TYPICAL 20 YEAR OLD
She lives with a couple of roommates but only recently left home. She’s never lived with her boyfriend. She has a job or is going to college. She has a car. She doesn’t have a drug problem. She may have had an abortion, the odds are 80-20 against it. Her IQ is 110. She gave her first hand job at 15, then gave up her virginity at the Junior Prom. Her best sex was with some guy she picked up one weekend in Palm Springs. He was 26 but never called when she got back to LA like he promised.
She smokes marijuana , does a bump or snorts coke at parties and at home when she’s bored. She drinks at home, at parties and in clubs and bars where she sees herself as a grown up. She’s not shy but not a rowdy extrovert either. She follows fashion but isn’t a trendy person. She’s had the same boyfriend for a year and a half. At 23, he still lives with his parents and has a job, sometimes.
To really understand her, get your fogged up memory working. Think back 20 years. What was it like being powerless? What was it like to only have a few dollars? What was it like thinking everyone was watching you? What was it like not knowing what you were doing, having to bullshit your way through? Remember what an asshole you were at 20. Recall how totally cool you pretended to be, acting like you knew all about life and love. She’s no different.
CONFLICT, CONFUSION—SITUATION NORMAL
She’s internalized most values our culture sanctimoniously preaches but she’s beginning to notice widespread hypocrisy. She is questioning the rationality of some ideas and is considering the possibility that many rules for behavior are wrong, not just for her, but for all society.
Strong, conflicting emotions generated by her own mutually exclusive values and goals cause moods to come and go without warning. She often feels out of control and compensates for it by believing in something, anything. In short, a self-contradicting blend of the rules and brainwashing done by the FOUR Ps: Parents, Preachers, Professors and Politicians.
She’s trying to become the woman she has tacked up on the wall inside her head. Comparing herself to that ideal every day, she finds herself lacking. She is confused about life, love, sex, marriage, babies, career, parents, boyfriends, lovers and on and on. Her life is a jumble. Unsettled about the future, she decides “once and for all” at least twice a month. She’s insecure because of her lack of knowledge, experience, power, money and independence. When comparing herself to other young women, she sees only their facades of self confidence. Having no idea her friends are just as uncertain, she feels isolated, alone. The more insecure she is, the more she covers it up. She appears aloof, cool and sophisticated, especially to you.
Thoughts and feelings arise from nowhere. She wants to stab her Dad and choke her 13 year old sister because the brat gets to do everything she was forbidden at that age. She feels sick for wanting to feel her co-worker’s big tits. Guilt arises when announcing she doesn’t go to church any more. After masturbating she wonders if God was really watching. Sometimes she’s so terribly lonely she seriously considers killing herself. To her there’s no reason for these feelings. Her problems seem monumental. She has no idea it’s normal, late adolescent dues paying. She has no perspective from which to judge.
For months she knows what she is and what she wants, then suddenly she has a change of heart. No longer does she want to be a Cosmo Girl, she wants to be a trendy teenager again. Six weeks later she changes her image to Yuppie In Training. After working in an office for a half a year she realizes how hard it is to make money. Then she goes to a romantic movie with Jimmy. They talk about getting married. She decides she’d like to stay at home, an ivy covered cottage, and raise two cute kids.
She believes that if she does the right things, eventually she’ll be rewarded. To her there’s only one right way to do anything, including having a relationship with a male. You’re a male. Prepare yourself.
“It will be easy when I’m 28,” is one of her deeply held beliefs. She thinks she’ll be able to cope effectively with “men,” parents and life in general. All young people think everything’s supposed to go smoothly. They have no idea life is nothing but a series of obstacles, feeling God or fate is punishing or testing them when a problem comes into their lives.
When she meets a male in society’s acceptable age range she sees only a potential husband. She and her counterparts believe in the nuclear family and want to be the center of one someday. The difference is, in her family everyone will be happy. She thinks she can make it work, just as you and I did.
Don’t argue or try to convince her she’s wrong about this belief or any others. Only offer your views if pressed severely. It is not useful to debate with her. Life, and you’re part of life, will eventually prove how ridiculous and hypocritical most of our culture’s rules, traditions and gender-specific goals are.
The self concept she developed from six years old until she started her period is lurking in the background. Her new self is solidifying but it’s in constant jeopardy as she confronts more and more of what the adult world has to offer, including you. Under stress she turns into a brat of eleven you’d love to strangle or a frightened five year old you have to hold on your lap.
She feels like a failure from her sophomore year of high school on, if she does not have a boyfriend. It doesn’t mean she won’t have an affair with you even if she has a boyfriend. It only means he ensures she won’t have to stay home on Saturday night.
She wants to be independent but fears being alone. She was raised to be a virgin when she married but “does it” all the time with Jimmy. She dreams of being rich and famous. She enjoys pretending she’s an adult but likes to be babied.
She and most of her friends, male and female, have whacked out parents — neurotic parents, dying parents, divorcing parents, Jesus freak parents, alcoholic parents, possessive parents, neglecting mothers or molesting fathers. She wants O-U-T, out.
She hates her job, it’s menial and boring. Her boss “teases” her about taking her on a “business” trip and keeps wanting to rub her back.
Her friends are only fair in good weather. Debbie, her best friend, was kissing Jimmy at the party last week. But, she wants her friends to think she’s cool. She wants to make lots of money, spend it on cool clothes, cool cars, cool travel, on being “totally” cool. She and her counterparts are superficial not because they are genuinely phony, but because the world’s still a bit too big for them.
She is experimenting with life, testing herself to see how powerful she really is. At the same time she’s searching for a stable identity, choosing and rechoosing, marriage or college, getting a job and moving out or staying at home and doing nothing.
Older guys, it is a time of stress and pressure you have forgotten about. To her the stress and pressure are real even if, to you, it is lightweight, solvable stuff. When she meets you she suspects you’re married and lying about being divorced. Don’t press the point. She considers herself sophisticated for being suspicious.
She’s still becoming the person she’s going to be while you’re trying to un-become the person you’ve been. You’re trying to return to adolescence. She’s leaving it behind.
YOU CAUSE EVEN MORE CONFUSION
Just yesterday afternoon she was lying in your arms contented as a puppy with a full tummy. Today, after a fender bender, the whole universe is falling apart.
She’s confused by the flood of emotions you cause in her. During one week she feels elated, guilty, foolish, sexual, womanly, appreciated, accepted, curious, ignorant, naive, inept, silly, whorish, glamorous, sad, sensual, romantic, grown-up, lustful, horny, sated, terrified, brave, embarrassed, proud, shy, exhibitionistic, childlike, daughter-like and a hundred others you and I can’t empathize with.
Carla and I were lying in bed after superb orgasmic sex that lasted for a half an hour. As the glow faded, she said in a tiny, painful voice, “A year ago I was a virgin! Things are not like they told me.”
She thinks she must be in love, otherwise she wouldn’t be having such grand sex with you. At the same time she thinks, often out loud, “What am I doing?” She’s breaking all the rules and gets a charge out of doing just that. But, on her way home she feels like a cheap slut for sucking a cock.
She’s volatile, impulsive and irrational. Her confusion drives you crazy. She picks a fight so she can break up with you. She cancels a date and makes sure you know on some level she’s going out with a boy. She’s young, confused, ignorant and scared. If your affair’s been going for three months or more, add bored.
Sounds pretty negative, right? Well, my friend, I chose to tell you the bad news first. Why? Because if you think everything’s going to be easy or you’re not interested in taking the bad with the wonderful, you can put the book down now. Call up that 33 year old with three kids. Or, you can get back to important activities, like watching TV or hanging out in bars.
If you’re serious about young women, keep reading and absorb the negatives. Digest them. Mull them over. They are key to understanding her, something you must do before you can ever hope to talk with her, let alone date her. In a few chapters, you’ll get the good news.
THE 20 YEAR OLD’S AGENDA
She’s primarily interested in getting a husband-to-be on the hook. (Much more later in Boyfriends.) It takes her a year of going steady to feel she’s got him under control.
Once this is accomplished she wants to see what she’s been missing. She goes dancing or to parties with “the girls” where she practices interacting with new boys and young men. After a few months she’s ready. Her experimentation begins with another boy, her naive version of an affair.
She enjoys the excitement of getting away with something but then realizes he’s only a boy just like Jimmy. She wants to try on a “man,” so she finds one, Randy RedPorsche, a 28 year old singles’ bar professional. He bangs her on Thursday nights when she’s “out with the girls” and on Monday nights when Jimmy’s “out with the boys.”
When Jimmy finds out, he breaks up with her. But soon, RedPorsche gets bored and trashes her. She begs Jimmy to take her back. He does. Each claims to have discovered how much he really loves the other after only four weeks apart. They prove it by exchanging wedding vows. In reality they’re both terrified of the single world, so they flee to the “safety” of marriage and a “dependable” partner.
If Jimmy won’t take her back she tries a brief but uninspired crack at single life. After getting screwed literally and figuratively by one user after another, two things are possible. Either she becomes as plastic as the rest and starts hanging out in pickup bars. Or, if you’re lucky, she drops out of the swinging singles’ world and dates several young men she knew from high school or met at college as she searches for another husband-to-be.
If you meet her after the breakup you have a much better chance with her than before her first fling. If she’s abandoned the bar scene your chances improve ten times. If she and her boyfriend are working on their relationship you’re chances are a hundred times better. “Working on” means she’s keeping her freedom to date or he is. They go out with each other only when lonely, bored or horny.
Back up a bit. Let’s assume she wasn’t going steady but was living with her boyfriend for a year.
At first she enjoys playing house and acting like a grown-up, at least what she fantasizes adults behave like. As time goes by it becomes apparent this is not as much fun as it should be but she does not discuss it with him, she only complains to her girl friends or her mother. The younger, the more she feels she’s missing out on what her contemporaries are experiencing.
If she hasn’t given up on her mini-marriage she tries to go out with the girls. He feels insecure and reacts according to his personality, machoing out and insisting she stay home or wimping out, acting like his whole world is ending. No matter which way he reacts she’s so angry she feels free to cheat on him and does, with the first male of any age who treats her nice.
Her motive is to hurt him and get him to change, meaning she has to get caught. If Jimmy’s too trusting or too dumb to figure it out, she confesses in order to create the scene(s) necessary for Jimmy to change. You are paying attention, aren’t you?
This couple struggles along until they get married or one of them meets somebody new, and leaves. If a primary motive for moving in with him was to escape neurotic parents, she will live with a couple of girl friends while she looks for a new husband-to-be.
These events are typical for those who don’t marry within two years out of high school. She has this experience between 17 and 23, depending on her maturity, but for most it happens when she’s 20, plus or minus a year.
WHAT SHE KNOWS ABOUT SEX
Mummy and Daddy pounded it into her young head boys are only interested in one thing. By the age of 20 she believes it. Every male to date has tried to pack her pipe within hours or on the second date. The exception is her boyfriend, he was “honorable” for at least for a month.
Her actual experience is mostly mediocre intercourse with possibly one good, not great, lover. Contrary to the media’s exploitation, most young women engage in sexual relations only with fiancées or steady boyfriends.
However, when she doesn’t have a boyfriend, a likable, young enough to marry guy (22-29) dates her easily and gets in her pants quickly. He has a wide choice of young women and she knows it. Experience has taught her to “get it on” or he won’t be back, then there’ll be no chance to hook a potential husband. After ten or more of these encounters that take place between boyfriends, she finally realizes these young men are using her intense desire to become Queen For A Day to get her on her back. At that point she begins playing “The Dating Game” much rougher with all males, including you. She’s reached 23 or 24 by then.
The young men who precede you think eating pussy is something one does only to get head in return. They are not concerned with her pleasure or enjoyment except for Randy RedPorsche’s younger brother, Danny Manly. He wants her to believe he’s super stud so she’ll rave about him to her girl friends. He hopes word will get back to his buddies so they will think he’s a “real man.” Other boys and young men, including her boyfriend, don’t encourage her to take an active part in any sexual activities except when they want a blowjob. She’s only a notch on their guns. But each and every time, she hoped to be loved.
In my experience only a few young women have ever achieved orgasm as the result of a young partner’s actions. And, with some of them, it was only an accident, an unrepeatable accident. (Don’t concern yourself with this the first few times, as explained in Sex With Her.) Most just give in to intercourse, and although it’s pleasurable, it’s not like in the movies or her trashy romance novels.
She believes sex is okay, it feels good but it’s not all that great. She can’t understand what all the excitement’s about. After lying to her and manipulating her for weeks, he comes in 30 to 90 seconds. She and her contemporaries just don’t have any great experiences they’re trying to repeat.
Young women rarely need sex like their older counterparts who’ve discovered, by about 28, that priests and all other purveyors of anti-sex propaganda were, and are, full of shit. Very seldom will you meet a young woman who loves sex. Those who do began early. They’re rebellious, independent and have learned to take charge of their own orgasms. If she’s had an older boyfriend who could sustain intercourse, she finds sex wonderful, fun and nourishing.
HER FIRST MAN
She heard about dirty old men as she was growing up. The tone of voice and disapproving faces made her fear older men. When she was 14, Mr. Pious, the Sunday school teacher, Mr. Boneher, the History Teacher, Dr. Feelit, her pediatrician, or even her own Uncle Dick, tried to fuck her. She didn’t expect it. She trusted him. She thought it would be some stranger hiding in a dark alley. All this is in the back of her pretty head. Don’t even talk like the man Mummy warned her about.
EXPERIENCE CAN HELP, BUT
Most limit themselves to young males, you know, marriable. That’s why they’re disappointed, unfulfilled and interested in you. An experienced 21 year old’s idea of variety means a tall boy, a muscled boy, a black boy, a chubby boy and for a radical thrill, Randy RedPorsche’s roomie, the 29 year old Sammy SilverBeemer.
Living with a boy does not help her all that much. It does get her over the mystery of sex, helps clear up unrealistic ideas she had about male plumbing and does away with old wives’ tales.
Those who have lived with their boyfriends are sexually experienced to his level, meaning they have tried everything he knows. She doesn’t get to learn how to really enjoy herself because he is so limited in his knowledge and ability. If she attempts to be assertive he’s intimidated and manipulates her out of experimenting with anything except “swallowing it” or trying the “back door.”
UNDERSTANDING ALL 18-24 YEAR OLDS
Young women, even girls as young a 14, have the same undesirable, unpleasant qualities of adult women, they are catty and viciously competitive over males. Don’t be surprised if you have to contend with the 17 year old sister of your 21 year old lover vying for your attention and favors.
Although this sounds like it might be fun, it isn’t. It turns ugly quickly if either gets her ego bruised. One will threaten to tell dad or the other’s boyfriend.
Random Thoughts. The world feels new and fresh to the young. They sincerely feel it can be changed and believe they’re the ones who can do it. Never be cynical or laugh at her idealism.
Young females need to be hugged and cuddled. When you get the chance give her plenty of both.
They are not comfortable with competition or competing except with each other for males. Don’t stress winning when involved in any sport if she’s around. Don’t drive like it’s Memorial Day at Indy. Don’t play any video games with her if you share the view of Al Davis of the Raiders, “Just Win, Baby.” Don’t let her win but don’t take any game seriously.
Girls from the extreme upper and lower socio-economic levels experience intercourse younger. Nothing matters, they have too much or too little. I don’t discuss them.
The girl who places high value on academic achievement is strikeout city. Her focus is in the wrong place to enjoy you while she’s pleasing her parents or society with a high GPA.
None of them fuck like they dance. None of them fuck like they dress. They have no idea how overdone they are in these two areas.
Her soap operas, television programs and trash novels have convinced her “sugar” comes with the territory if you’re over 35ish. She’s not really a gold digger. She just thinks that’s part of the deal. Squash this concept early on and I mean right away.
However, it is okay to be somewhat nice to her. Take her places Jimmy never would. Small, inexpensive, thoughtful gifts are appropriate. Bigger things come later, at the same time you’d give them to a woman you enjoyed dating for months and months.
When she begins reading Cosmopolitan your star shines far brighter. Buy her a subscription.
There is a period each year when you can count on a thin supply of young women, Election Day through New Year’s Day. Most grit their teeth and endure horrible treatment by their boyfriends or put off breaking up with a someone who bores them shitless. They believe and it feels like it that their world will end without “someone special” in their lives during the holidays.
Even worse, they get serious with anyone they’re even casually dating in November to ensure they can share “the joy of Christmas.” Watch out! This includes you. Tactfully keep your distance but send or give her a nice gift. Stay in contact. She’ll recover from this culturally induced madness just in time for a truly important event, the Super Bowl.
General Advice. Lower your desire for physical beauty from 9.5 to 7.5 and watch fifty percent of the competition disappear. If you concentrate on 9.0 and above you’ll be frustrated and humiliated most of the time. Stick with 6.5’s to 8.0’s. From my experience the young woman who is average looking with an average figure is easier to meet, a much nicer person, a better human being, as well as being more fun than any stunning looking one. She feels appreciated for the first time in her life. She is.
Forget the high schooler. Her head is up her ass and will be for two more years. Proms, football games, Friday dances, Jimmy’s bitchin’, totally rad, new Vee Dub convertible.
Forget the big titted girl. The competition is, pardon the pun, too stiff. Every male within 500 miles is interested. If you insist on trying, never mention her figure and don’t even sneak a peek at those double D’s.
Forget the beauty queen. Or any beauty. The competition is, pardon the same pun, too stiff. She’s able to pick and choose and she’s heard it all before from practiced experts. Too much trouble, thinks she really is a princess. Besides, you have to deal with the attention she attracts no matter where you go. People notice and remember you being with her. Not a great idea.
Forget the disco dolly. She’s the one who spends two hours getting ready for work, three hours for the disco. Her $170 hair cut requires 90 minutes for curling and spraying. She wears the latest, most expensive clothes, usually $300 worth just to go dancing. She’s concerned only with image, too insecure to be herself, while looking for a disco dick to impress and marry.
Forget all born agains. And girls with doves, fish or “I Love Jesus” symbols on their cars or around their necks. They look normal. Some can even talk normal. Believe brother, believe. They’re marching to the beat of a different drummer. Say Amen.
Whim Driven. The younger, the more ruled by instant gratification they are. For example, a 22 year old can agree to a trip to Palm Springs in two weeks and wait, then turn down a “better offer” three days before departure. A typical 19 year old has difficulty keeping a date to go night skiing at Big Bear three days from now. If girl friends call and want her to go to Vegas a few hours before she’s due at your place, she’ll call and apologize, maybe.
As she spends more and more time with you the more realistic she becomes no matter how young she is. Just being around you has a tranquilizing effect on her. No longer is everything ruled hour by hour. In only a month she’s thinking ahead two or three days at a time. Eventually she can plan from week to week. If you last long enough, from month to month. You’ll never make it until she’s able to think, plan and execute six months in advance.
As I’m writing this I’m planning a trip to Hawaii with a 19 year old. Our affair has been going for nine months. Recently she’s learned it is possible to plan ahead. Two months into the relationship she was still so impulsive she ruined a three day weekend not being able to turn down a “better offer” at the last moment. We survived my ensuing explosion. I won’t predict if it’ll be Aloha or Adios in two more months.
Teddy Bears. The younger she is, the more suspect you are. Sometimes she drags along her Teddy Bear, a female friend, on the first pseudo date. Don’t resent it. She has to take this initial step on her terms, not yours. Her friend serves several functions — body guard, validation of your attractiveness, support in case you overwhelm her, someone to talk with or get her out if you’re boring. This can happen even if you’re 22.
Teddy comes along until your chosen feels safe with you. This includes day ski trips, beach excursions, a “spontaneous” dinner or anything else. Be enthusiastic about it. Include Teddy in all conversations and fun. Make friends with her. She will be grading you. Remember, she has the ear of your future lover and will certainly bend it.
It’s not productive to flirt strongly with Teddy but let her know you find her pleasant and attractive as a female. If you patronize Teddy, you can shine it on, forever.
Anytime there are two females involved things get complicated quickly. If you’re older, Teddy, especially if she’s more experienced, may have given herself the assignment of testing you under battle conditions. She’ll bait you with emotionally loaded questions about sex or religion. Teddy may even bluntly ask how your children handled the divorce! If she’s attracted to you she may resent her feelings and try to destroy you in front of her friend so neither can have you. Strange? Yes, but true.
If Teddy decides she wants you for herself she undermines everything you’ve built to date. In the end she will feel like shit for what she did and won’t go out with you, either.
The younger she is, the more likely she’ll bring Teddy along. I even had it happen with a 26 year old.
Rebs and Others. Young women come in two basic models—conformists and rebels. Rebs are outnumbered twenty to one but what a great group. They aren’t hard to spot. Sometimes they are wearing something outlandish. However, I can tell by her walk, confident, arrogant, strong and sometimes like she has a chip on her shoulder.
For entertainment they intentionally piss off their parents or boyfriends. By being a rebel she defines herself as different from her parents, different from peers, different from adults of any kind. But, she’s just different, having only found who and what she isn’t.
Rebels are the ones who will date someone 10 or more years older than she is. Learn how to recognize them. Then identify the one who’s interested in you. Read my Body Language Secrets!
Lookie Lous Will Make It With You. Many have been interested in me only because they were curious. After a couple of dates they go to bed with me once or twice, then I never hear from them again. They found out what they wanted to know and decided, “It’s not all that hot.” Or they’re so guilt ridden about Jimmy they can’t continue.
The ones who didn’t like me search for excitement with some other grown-up male. Those who feel guilty go back to “messin’ around” with boys, somehow that’s not bad. Or, they make up for their sin with me by getting engaged to Jimmy and remain monogamous until a year after the honeymoon.
Relax, accept being a curiosity. Don’t feel indignant. She’s just looking. You’re an experiment in her life. That’s how she learns. Be glad you could help.
HER MOTIVES FOR DATING YOU
Older guys, you’re asking her to go against everything parents, boyfriend, church, society and girl friends have drilled into that pretty young head and heart of hers. Why will she do it?
One element of her motivation is the desire to be seriously fucked, the way she’s heard it’s supposed to be done. As you now know her best experience does not begin to measure up to what she’s heard from other girls, read in Cosmopolitan or seen in the movies. And, “fer sure,” there is the stereotype of men as knowledgeable, experienced lovers.
She knows there must be more to it. But this is one of her darkest, most closely held secrets, slightly behind masturbating and feeling terribly lonely. She fantasizes what a “real man” would do with her. If she’s a bit drunk she talks to her closest girl friend about what it should be like. Don’t get this wrong. She’s not obsessed with sex but wonders if she’s missing something important.
So far her boyfriend’s best efforts aren’t much. He wants his cock sucked all the time. He’s reluctant to give her head and has no idea a clit isn’t a miniature dick, if he even knows where it is. He lasts two minutes or less after entering her. She and her contemporaries know, on some level, there’s more to it.
Part of the attraction is your age. It makes you different, plain and simple. You are attracted to her because she’s different from 33 year old divorcees. (How’s that for an understatement?) Also, your age qualifies you to participate with her in a forbidden romance, a turn on to females of any age.
She wants to experience life. You have the knowledge and money to show her a world she’s only seen on television and read about in People. Older lovers have lots to offer says Cosmopolitan. One of her girl friend’s acquaintances has one. She’s ready to give it a try.
She may want to shame and degrade her parents. This girl plays a game called The Goy Ploy. She picks a male to infuriate and embarrass her parents—a goy if she’s Jewish, or a Jew if her parents found Jesus. Others to piss off Mum and Dad—bikers, Mexicans, punks or an older man. Paying attention?
She has to get caught with you so she can make a giant scene(s) to rub her parent’s noses in the whole sordid affair. That’ll show them they were bad to her. Then they’ll see it’s their fault she turned out to be a bad girl.
Daughters of the rich sometimes are just bored and want to do something “totally radical.” But, poor little rich girls play Goy Ploy, too. Be extra careful. Irate wealthy parents like to prove themselves blameless by threatening legal action or using their connections to punish you “for seducing our sweet, innocent baby girl.”
Foolish Assumptions of Mine. As a married man I was able to easily meet and date young women. After a few conversations and lunch she’d realize I only wanted to nail her to the mattress, then to the wall at the nearest motel.
After three of these affairs I realized it was not necessary to beat around the bush, so to pun. I only had to be discreet and make it tactfully clear what I wanted. She simply chose to participate in some serious fucking or diplomatically passed. She knew from my approach and attitude that if she played “chase me, catch me, fuck me” I’d lose interest and she’d lose “fuck me.” Courtship was simpler and faster then. No confusion about long term possibilities, the goal was straightforward.
My foolish assumption—after getting divorced I would be able to meet and have real dates with young women.
WRONG! Married men are toys, nothing to take seriously.
When she dates a married man she doesn’t feel used. She knows what the score is. If she gets entangled she only blames herself because she reads advice blogs every day.
Now that I’m single, she’s confused about my purpose and goal. “He’s kind of a potential husband but he’s so old.” Everything’s muddled. She wants to get married someday but she’s been used and lied to by every guy over 26 she’s ever been out with. No matter what I say or do she thinks I am primarily interested in her slit.
I’m something she’s not encountered before. I don’t want to just nail her. I want to have a caring, romantic, fun-filled affair for as long as we enjoy each other. She knows that on some level from my attitude and approach, sometimes she even asks me directly.
“Gosh! an affair? Really? You know, like, I don’ know. Jeez. What about my boyfriend?”
To answer that question and to really understand her, you have to be clear on why she almost always has a boyfriend. But first you need to know Which Young Women, otherwise, you’ll waste time pursuing the wrong one.
Which Young Women is Chapter 3]]>
You’re interested in, no, that’s way too weak. You’re lusting after young females. Trouble is, you don’t have the slightest idea how to meet, talk with and date them.
Seen many men dating girls 18 to 24 years old? That’s not because the men don’t want to, now is it? Could it be ten million of them read the book quoted below pr atteded a Pick Up Artist’s Bootcamp? The poor saps think all they have to do is walk up and spew one of the author’s “100 Best Opening Lines.”
The first, and really the only thing it takes to pick up girls, is to talk to them. Basically that’s it. You find a chick who turns you on, you stroll right up to her, and you say, ‘That dimple on your left knee is absolutely sensational!’ . . . That’s all there is to it. If you can do that, you can really pick up girls. By the truckloads! ERIC WEBER, How To Pick Up Girls: Featuring Interviews With 25 Beautiful Girls. (Or fill in the name of any PUA and his “course” or “program” or way over priced E book.)
Do you suppose Weber or any Pick Up Artist really believes the only thing it takes “is to talk to them?” Maybe the 25 beautiful girls he interviewed were in his wet dreams? The “dimple” line and his others might work if a Brad Pitt look-alike “strolled right up” and tried it. That’s assuming the “chick” could keep from laughing hysterically, an assumption few men with three-digit IQ’s would make.
NOTE: Since 1987, at least 15 different dating “experts” have ripped off my book! Not kidding! They are even less knowledgeable of what it takes to find, meet, talk and date than Weber! These snake oil salesmen offer “new solutions” such as dress like a doof and act mysterious or be arrogantly funny or NLP manipulation and other such nonsense. They present their “systems” as a quick fix, which is irresistible to most guys, keeping these scammers in business.
Persuasively they say that you get to choose the woman and then sell you a “system” to seduce her! Silly at minimum. Fraud is more likely! Why?
Because men don’t do the choosing! Among all mammals, males compete. The female watches and then she chooses which male to be with. Evolution designed female Homo sapiens to be extremely picky. Her survival depends on choosing a male capable of helping her raise their offspring by providing and protecting. Women don’t choose males who wear a goofy hat or one who babbles about roller coasters and chocolate or one who acts cocky and funny. Anyone who even tries those techniques immediately loses respect for himself!
With me you learn fundamentals of dating that were built into men and women during the 200 million years it took for Homo sapiens to evolve! In this book I explain HOW to find, meet, talk, date and relate. In Volume 2, I explain WHY the Steel Balls Principles work.
This is a how-to book by a man who has done it for his entire adult life! I explain how to make your fantasies come true but right now that’s exactly what they are, fantasies. You are going to learn how white, or raised white, middle class young women think, what’s important to them and what they want from a guy. You’ll know what you have to be and look like to attract her. I explain where to find her, how to meet her, what to say to her, principles of courting, what her real motives are for dating you, how to behave on dates and how to seduce her. I tell you the must do’s as well as the no no’s.
You’re going to know what she has to offer and what you absolutely cannot expect from her. You will end up knowing what it really takes to date a twentyish woman. My experiences are here for you to learn from, good ones, funny ones and horror stories. When done reading you’ll avoid many of the mistakes I made as you learn the complex, delicate rituals and courtship practices insisted upon by young women.
But you have to learn by doing. If you want to break, then ride a horse, a wild young mare, you can’t read a book then sit on the corral fence theorizing about it. You have to climb on and get thrown, again and again. Eventually you’ll realize you must talk gently to her, letting her know you intend no harm, showing no fear while radiating, “I’m in charge here.” When you can do that she’ll let you mount her and won’t buck you off.
There are 14 million young women out there. At this very moment a half a million of them are being courted by men twice their age. Tens of thousands are having affairs with a man right now, loving every minute. So how do you get involved?
You already date women, right? No matter how old she is the steps are the same: find-meet-talk-date. What’s the problem then, you ask?
THE PROBLEM. Clearly stated, you don’t know how to: (1) find her (2) meet her and (3) talk with her. Dating follows naturally if you converse with her correctly, based on the rules of engagement as she understands them. If you are dating and mating you know how to solve this three-part problem. If you are divorced, have only limited experience, or have zero experience, keep reading to the last page. Then get Volume 2.
Find Her. Where do you find women right now? At work, in bars, attending classes, through friends, at parties and sometimes in the most unexpected places, like the post office. You find young women in the same places! No shit, you say. Well, everywhere except bars. Forget them, much more later.
My point is, finding her is not a big part of this problem. You have the primary resource to solve it sitting on top of your neck, your big head, not to be confused with your little head, which often prevents a solution to any part of this problem.
Meet Her. It’s no different from meeting a woman. You introduce yourself, someone introduces you or she introduces herself. You have nearly all the skills and resources right now. This part of the problem is solved with only your big head, some chutzpa and learning a few techniques. But that’s after, only after, you understand her, what she wants from you and what she’s afraid of.
Talk With Her. Look closely at this one. It is made up of two tasks. Task A is delivering an opening line that won’t make her laugh at you or scare her away. For Christ’s sake, don’t use any from How to Pick Up Girls, okay? Task B is sustaining the conversation long enough for her to realize you are (a) safe (b) interesting and (c) attractive.
ESSENCE OF THE PROBLEM. The substance, the essential difference, the core, or, to put it more succinctly, the entire god damned thing comes down to Task B with its four sub-tasks.
Sustained Contact. You have to talk with her for a minimum of four or five minutes. At this point you don’t know much about talking with anyone under 25. You don’t yet have the ability to carry on a conversation she can, like, relate to. You know, like, on her level. Simple, you know, like friendly, relaxed, you know, like, well, totally casual. No, they’re not all airheads. But “casual” is what every last one of them needs to realize you’re not dangerous. She is afraid you might be physically dangerous as well as socially and emotionally dangerous.
Physical Danger. She thinks you could be the Night Stalker’s brother or a dirty old man trying to cop a feel. Being relaxed and friendly makes it possible for her to see you’re safe. You do this with women. Young women just take longer.
But it isn’t how much longer it takes her. The real problem is your lust, your excitement, your impatience, your lack of confidence, your fear of rejection. These combine, causing you to radiate bad vibrations. She picks them up and thinks you could be very dangerous, at which point she says, “Later,” with or without words.
Social Danger. You’ll soon learn how to control yourself and your emotions when talking with her. Then you must figure out how to calm her fear of the threat you pose to her socially. In simple English, you learn how to not be direct or obvious. You have to be casual enough so she doesn’t have to worry her friends, peers, and possibly her boyfriend, will ridicule or reject her if she’s seen talking with you.
The problem is not her fear, it’s you but not your emotions. You haven’t mastered the art of being casual. A young woman’s not only worried about being seen talking with you. She has far more to lose by dating you. With patience, her view of you as socially dangerous can be transformed into the realization you are discreet, subtle and sensitive to her situation.
Emotional Danger. If you are experienced, she thinks you’re so powerful, so knowledgeable, you will be able to sexually use her, then discard her. This is her biggest fear. Although this sounds impossible to overcome, it isn’t. I spend fewer pages on this than the others. Trial and error, mostly error, will teach you what to do.
INTERESTING AND ATTRACTING HER. I don’t mean to be glib but after you know how to deal with her fears you only have to be yourself. Of course you have to look like someone she’d like to talk with but that’s all explained. Then you have to religiously follow the Ten Commandments Of Meeting and the Eleven Commandments Of Courtship. You must also have “Answers To Inevitable Questions” down pat. At that point you only have to get up, dust yourself off and get back on every time you get thrown. Practice, practice, practice.]]>
This recent study was full of academic jargon and psychobabble, I rewrote it. (If you want to read the original, the url is at the bottom.)
Definition: A backburner is a someone you are not involved with but want to be. You maintain communication by text or email or facebook or even skype. That keeps the possibility of romantic/sexual rolling along. From an evolutionary view it makes a sense. ALL women do this and some men. More in a minute.
A 2007 study found love motivates people to shut down other options. This is consistent with research that suggests people in relationships don’t pay as much attention to others.
With all this as background, Dibble reasoned people in committed relationships would keep fewer people on the backburner. What surprised him was there was no significant difference between the number of backburners kept by people in relationships, and the number kept by single people!
All this study really showed is most people keep some alternatives on the backburner. That’s not a new phenomenon: “In the old days it was called keeping people in your little black book,” Dibble says.
Steele says ALL WOMEN DO THIS no matter what type of relationship they are in until they die! Experienced men do the same. Usually it takes men two shitty relationships before men realize it’s a good idea to have a back up plan!
Bad news. Every guy in my program who has limited or no dating experience drops contact with all females Once he finally starts dating a woman. That’s dating! She’s not even his steady, his girlfriend or fiancee! Of course it never ends well!
The real world reality of this phenomenon is explained with brutal honesty in Relationship with Dream Girl and in Date Young Women Volume I and II.
Excerpt from Relationship with Dream Girl
The Biggest Mistake
Here are some short excerpts from previous books in the Dream Girl Series. See if you can figure out what the blunder is.
Pearls? Girls or women you are courting but not yet dating. If you’re only working on one woman, you tend to try too hard!
Three pearls, at a minimum, four is better. It helps maintain The Right Attitude.
That is why Don wants you to go thru coffee, lunch, pizza and beer first. And he wants three pearls so you do not go overboard with one YW!
Yes, you’re just one of many guys on her string of pearls! Desirable women have strings of pearls 20 pearls long or longer. The more desirable she is, the longer the string!
Before we get into second dates . . . about being relaxed and confident! Increase both with a String of Pearls. A bigger benefit, any woman can tell when she has competition so she tries harder!
You guessed it! He drops all his pearls! Why? We all, me too, grew up with a fairytale that there’s One and Only, Always and Forever! Naive men like I was, become “honorable and faithful” and stop courting other women once they are in a relationship.
Bad news! All women have a string of pearls unto death! Most women have “platonic” male friends forever. Many have a secret man or two they continue to communicate with after the wedding!
The longest string of pearls Dream Girl has is made up of the men who continue to chase and court “your woman”. They even do that after she has your engagement or wedding ring on her finger! Shocking? Yes. Will it stop? No.
Dream Girl wants you to have The Right Attitude forever. Without a string of pearls The Right Attitude disappears! Figure out what happens after that! It’s not pleasant!
Do not tell her you have pearls. A few guys from the Steel Balls Discussion Group, have ìconfessed” because they felt guilty. The end! You are not cheating on her. You are doing the same thing she’s doing! Lest you forget:
At a recent workshop the T-babes kept nodding their heads vigorously and knowingly when I was spewing my mandate to have a string of pearls.
A guy asked why they were smiling and nodding. Sunny said, “We all do the same thing! We all do it, all the time, from age 12 and even when we have boyfriends.” She looked at the other two, who chimed in, “Yes!”
All T-babes since 1999 have been stunned that 22-62 year old men don’t know what they, as females, consider tribal knowledge. To them it’s automatic as well as necessary for survival in their world where to be without a boyfriend is the ultimate failure.
Prevent the Biggest Mistake! Keep your pearls and always add new ones. Even more important, the next chapter is Flirting Is a Way of Life!
DAY HAD BROKEN cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth-bank, where a dim and little-travelled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more days must pass before that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky-line and dip immediately from view.
The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle undulations where the ice-jams of the freeze-up had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hair-line that curved and twisted from around the spruce-covered island to the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another spruce-covered island. This dark hair-line was the trail—the main trail—that led south five hundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a thousand more.
But all this—the mysterious, far-reaching hair-line trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all—made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man’s frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man’s place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.
As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below—how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o’clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.
He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, travelling light. In fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he concluded, as he rubbed his numb nose and cheek-bones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man, but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheek-bones and the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty air.
At the man’s heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the proper wolf-dog, gray-coated and without any visible or temperamental difference from its brother, the wild wolf. The animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for travelling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man’s judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero. Since the freezing-point is thirty-two above zero, it meant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was in the man’s brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a vague but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink along at the man’s heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its warmth away from the air.
The frozen moisture of its breathing had settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were its jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crystalled breath. The man’s red beard and mustache were likewise frosted, but more solidly, the deposit taking the form of ice and increasing with every warm, moist breath he exhaled. Also, the man was chewing tobacco, and the muzzle of ice held his lips so rigidly that he was unable to clear his chin when he expelled the juice. The result was that a crystal beard of the color and solidity of amber was increasing its length on his chin. If he fell down it would shatter itself, like glass, into brittle fragments. But he did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty all tobacco-chewers paid in that country, and he had been out before in two cold snaps. They had not been so cold as this, he knew, but by the spirit thermometer at Sixty Mile he knew they had been registered at fifty below and at fifty-five.
He held on through the level stretch of woods for several miles, crossed a wide flat of niggerheads, and dropped down a bank to the frozen bed of a small stream. This was Henderson Creek, and he knew he was ten miles from the forks. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. He was making four miles an hour, and he calculated that he would arrive at the forks at half-past twelve. He decided to celebrate that event by eating his lunch there.
The dog dropped in again at his heels, with a tail drooping discouragement, as the man swung along the creek-bed. The furrow of the old sled-trail was plainly visible, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks of the last runners. In a month no man had come up or down that silent creek. The man held steadily on. He was not much given to thinking, and just then particularly he had nothing to think about save that he would eat lunch at the forks and that at six o’clock he would be in camp with the boys. There was nobody to talk to; and, had there been, speech would have been impossible because of the ice-muzzle on his mouth. So he continued monotonously to chew tobacco and to increase the length of his amber beard.
Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that it was very cold and that he had never experienced such cold. As he walked along he rubbed his cheek-bones and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did this automatically, now and again changing hands. But rub as he would, the instant he stopped his cheek-bones went numb, and the following instant the end of his nose went numb. He was sure to frost his cheeks; he knew that, and experienced a pang of regret that he had not devised a nose-strap of the sort Bud wore in cold snaps. Such a strap passed across the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn’t matter much, after all. What were frosted cheeks? A bit painful, that was all; they were never serious.
Empty as the man’s mind was of thoughts, he was keenly observant, and he noticed the changes in the creek, the curves and bends and timber-jams, and always he sharply noted where he placed his feet. Once, coming around a bend, he shied abruptly, like a startled horse, curved away from the place where he had been walking, and retreated several paces back along the trail. The creek he knew was frozen clear to the bottom,—no creek could contain water in that arctic winter,—but he knew also that there were springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the coldest snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow. Sometimes there were alternate layers of water and ice-skin, so that when one broke through he kept on breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the waist.
That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the give under his feet and heard the crackle of a snow-hidden ice-skin. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, for he would be forced to stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins. He stood and studied the creek-bed and its banks, and decided that the flow of water came from the right. He reflected awhile, rubbing his nose and cheeks, then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he took a fresh chew of tobacco and swung along at his four-mile gait. In the course of the next two hours he came upon several similar traps. Usually the snow above the hidden pools had a sunken, candied appearance that advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had a close call; and once, suspecting danger, he compelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not want to go. It hung back until the man shoved it forward, and then it went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It had wet its forefeet and legs, and almost immediately the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts to lick the ice off its legs, then dropped down in the snow and began to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. This was a matter of instinct. To permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed the mysterious prompting that arose from the deep crypts of its being. But the man knew, having achieved a judgment on the subject, and he removed the mitten from his right hand and helped tear out the ice-particles. He did not expose his fingers more than a minute, and was astonished at the swift numbness that smote them. It certainly was cold. He pulled on the mitten hastily, and beat the hand savagely across his chest.
At twelve o’clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun was too far south on its winter journey to clear the horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it and Henderson Creek, where the man walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no shadow. At half-past twelve, to the minute, he arrived at the forks of the creek. He was pleased at the speed he had made. If he kept it up, he would certainly be with the boys by six. He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The action consumed no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief moment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. He did not put the mitten on, but, instead, struck the fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snow-covered log to eat. The sting that followed upon the striking of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was startled. He had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice-muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as he chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also, he noted that the stinging which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wondered whether the toes were warm or numb. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided that they were numb.
He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was a bit frightened. He stamped up and down until the stinging returned into the feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed at him at the time! That showed one must not be too sure of things. There was no mistake about it, it was cold. He strode up and down, stamping his feet and threshing his arms, until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he got out matches and proceeded to make a fire. From the undergrowth, where high water of the previous spring had lodged a supply of seasoned twigs, he got his fire-wood. Working carefully from a small beginning, he soon had a roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his face and in the protection of which he ate his biscuits. For the moment the cold of space was outwitted. The dog took satisfaction in the fire, stretching out close enough for warmth and far enough away to escape being singed.
When the man had finished, he filled his pipe and took his comfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled on his mittens, settled the ear-flaps of his cap firmly about his ears, and took the creek trail up the left fork. The dog was disappointed and yearned back toward the fire. This man did not know cold. Possibly all the generations of his ancestry had been ignorant of cold, of real cold, of cold one hundred and seven degrees below freezing-point. But the dog knew; all its ancestry knew, and it had inherited the knowledge. And it knew that it was not good to walk abroad in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug in a hole in the snow and wait for a curtain of cloud to be drawn across the face of outer space whence this cold came. On the other hand, there was no keen intimacy between the dog and the man. The one was the toil-slave of the other, and the only caresses it had ever received were the caresses of the whip-lash and of harsh and menacing throat-sounds that threatened the whip-lash. So the dog made no effort to communicate its apprehension to the man. It was not concerned in the welfare of the man; it was for its own sake that it yearned back toward the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to it with the sound of whip-lashes, and the dog swung in at the man’s heels and followed after.
The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start a new amber beard. Also, his moist breath quickly powdered with white his mustache, eyebrows, and lashes. There did not seem to be so many springs on the left fork of the Henderson, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, where the soft, unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath, the man broke through. It was not deep. He wet himself halfway to the knees before he floundered out to the firm crust.
He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into camp with the boys at six o’clock, and this would delay him an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his foot-gear. This was imperative at that low temperature—he knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top, tangled in the underbrush about the trunks of several small spruce trees, was a high-water deposit of dry fire-wood—sticks and twigs, principally, but also larger portions of seasoned branches and fine, dry, last-year’s grasses. He threw down several large pieces on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and prevented the young flame from drowning itself in the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame he got by touching a match to a small shred of birch-bark that he took from his pocket. This burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass and with the tiniest dry twigs.
He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew stronger, he increased the size of the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow, pulling the twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feeding directly to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. When it is seventy-five below zero, a man must not fail in his first attempt to build a fire—that is, if his feet are wet. If his feet are dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a mile and restore his circulation. But the circulation of wet and freezing feet cannot be restored by running when it is seventy-five below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet feet will freeze the harder.
All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur Creek had told him about it the previous fall, and now he was appreciating the advice. Already all sensation had gone out of his feet. To build the fire he had been forced to remove his mittens, and the fingers had quickly gone numb. His pace of four miles an hour had kept his heart pumping blood to the surface of his body and to all the extremities. But the instant he stopped, the action of the pump eased down. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet, and he, being on that unprotected tip, received the full force of the blow. The blood of his body recoiled before it. The blood was alive, like the dog, and like the dog it wanted to hide away and cover itself up from the fearful cold. So long as he walked four miles an hour, he pumped that blood, willy-nilly, to the surface; but now it ebbed away and sank down into the recesses of his body. The extremities were the first to feel its absence. His wet feet froze the faster, and his exposed fingers numbed the faster, though they had not yet begun to freeze. Nose and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin of all his body chilled as it lost its blood.
But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be only touched by the frost, for the fire was beginning to burn with strength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of his finger. In another minute he would be able to feed it with branches the size of his wrist, and then he could remove his wet foot-gear, and, while it dried, he could keep his naked feet warm by the fire, rubbing them at first, of course, with snow. The fire was a success. He was safe. He remembered the advice of the old-timer on Sulphur Creek, and smiled. The old-timer had been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, some of them, he thought. All a man had to do was to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But it was surprising, the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short a time. Lifeless they were, for he could scarcely make them move together to grip a twig, and they seemed remote from his body and from him. When he touched a twig, he had to look and see whether or not he had hold of it. The wires were pretty well down between him and his finger-ends.
All of which counted for little. There was the fire, snapping and crackling and promising life with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice; the thick German socks were like sheaths of iron halfway to the knees; and the moccasin strings were like rods of steel all twisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a moment he tugged with his numb fingers, then, realizing the folly of it, he drew his sheath-knife.
But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own fault or, rather, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the spruce tree. He should have built it in the open. But it had been easier to pull the twigs from the brush and drop them directly on the fire. Now the tree under which he had done this carried a weight of snow on its boughs. No wind had blown for weeks, and each bough was fully freighted. Each time he had pulled a twig he had communicated a slight agitation to the tree—an imperceptible agitation, so far as he was concerned, but an agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. High up in the tree one bough capsized its load of snow. This fell on the boughs beneath, capsizing them. This process continued, spreading out and involving the whole tree. It grew like an avalanche, and it descended without warning upon the man and the fire, and the fire was blotted out! Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.
The man was shocked. It was as though he had just heard his own sentence of death. For a moment he sat and stared at the spot where the fire had been. Then he grew very calm. Perhaps the old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right. If he had only had a trail-mate he would have been in no danger now. The trail-mate could have built the fire. Well, it was up to him to build the fire over again, and this second time there must be no failure. Even if he succeeded, he would most likely lose some toes. His feet must be badly frozen by now, and there would be some time before the second fire was ready.
Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He was busy all the time they were passing through his mind. He made a new foundation for a fire, this time in the open, where no treacherous tree could blot it out. Next, he gathered dry grasses and tiny twigs from the high-water flotsam. He could not bring his fingers together to pull them out, but he was able to gather them by the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs and bits of green moss that were undesirable, but it was the best he could do. He worked methodically, even collecting an armful of the larger branches to be used later when the fire gathered strength. And all the while the dog sat and watched him, a certain yearning wistfulness in its eyes, for it looked upon him as the fire-provider, and the fire was slow in coming.
When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for a second piece of birch-bark. He knew the bark was there, and, though he could not feel it with his fingers, he could hear its crisp rustling as he fumbled for it. Try as he would, he could not clutch hold of it. And all the time, in his consciousness, was the knowledge that each instant his feet were freezing. This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he fought against it and kept calm. He pulled on his mittens with his teeth, and threshed his arms back and forth, beating his hands with all his might against his sides. He did this sitting down, and he stood up to do it; and all the while the dog sat in the snow, its wolf-brush of a tail curled around warmly over its forefeet, its sharp wolf-ears pricked forward intently as it watched the man. And the man, as he beat and threshed with his arms and hands, felt a great surge of envy as he regarded the creature that was warm and secure in its natural covering.
After a time he was aware of the first faraway signals of sensation in his beaten fingers. The faint tingling grew stronger till it evolved into a stinging ache that was excruciating, but which the man hailed with satisfaction. He stripped the mitten from his right hand and fetched forth the birch-bark. The exposed fingers were quickly going numb again. Next he brought out his bunch of sulphur matches. But the tremendous cold had already driven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to separate one match from the others, the whole bunch fell in the snow. He tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers could neither touch nor clutch. He was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet, and nose, and cheeks, out of his mind, devoting his whole soul to the matches. He watched, using the sense of vision in place of that of touch, and when he saw his fingers on each side the bunch, he closed them—that is, he willed to close them, for the wires were down, and the fingers did not obey. He pulled the mitten on the right hand, and beat it fiercely against his knee. Then, with both mittened hands, he scooped the bunch of matches, along with much snow, into his lap. Yet he was no better off.
Man and dog sitting across the ruins of the fire.After some manipulation he managed to get the bunch between the heels of his mittened hands. In this fashion he carried it to his mouth. The ice crackled and snapped when by a violent effort he opened his mouth. He drew the lower jaw in, curled the upper lip out of the way, and scraped the bunch with his upper teeth in order to separate a match. He succeeded in getting one, which he dropped on his lap. He was no better off. He could not pick it up. Then he devised a way. He picked it up in his teeth and scratched it on his leg. Twenty times he scratched before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamed he held it with his teeth to the birch-bark. But the burning brimstone went up his nostrils and into his lungs, causing him to cough spasmodically. The match fell into the snow and went out.
The old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right, he thought in the moment of controlled despair that ensued: after fifty below, a man should travel with a partner. He beat his hands, but failed in exciting any sensation. Suddenly he bared both hands, removing the mittens with his teeth. He caught the whole bunch between the heels of his hands. His arm-muscles not being frozen enabled him to press the hand-heels tightly against the matches. Then he scratched the bunch along his leg. It flared into flame, seventy sulphur matches at once! There was no wind to blow them out. He kept his head to one side to escape the strangling fumes, and held the blazing bunch to the birch-bark. As he so held it, he became aware of sensation in his hand. His flesh was burning. He could smell it. Deep down below the surface he could feel it. The sensation developed into pain that grew acute. And still he endured it, holding the flame of the matches clumsily to the bark that would not light readily because his own burning hands were in the way, absorbing most of the flame.
At last, when he could endure no more, he jerked his hands apart. The blazing matches fell sizzling into the snow, but the birch-bark was alight. He began laying dry grasses and the tiniest twigs on the flame. He could not pick and choose, for he had to lift the fuel between the heels of his hands. Small pieces of rotten wood and green moss clung to the twigs, and he bit them off as well as he could with his teeth. He cherished the flame carefully and awkwardly. It meant life, and it must not perish. The withdrawal of blood from the surface of his body now made him begin to shiver, and he grew more awkward. A large piece of green moss fell squarely on the little fire. He tried to poke it out with his fingers, but his shivering frame made him poke too far, and he disrupted the nucleus of the little fire, the burning grasses and tiny twigs separating and scattering. He tried to poke them together again, but in spite of the tenseness of the effort, his shivering got away with him, and the twigs were hopelessly scattered. Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out. The fire-provider had failed. As he looked apathetically about him, his eyes chanced on the dog, sitting across the ruins of the fire from him, in the snow, making restless, hunching movements, slightly lifting one forefoot and then the other, shifting its weight back and forth on them with wistful eagerness.
The sight of the dog put a wild idea into his head. He remembered the tale of the man, caught in a blizzard, who killed a steer and crawled inside the carcass, and so was saved. He would kill the dog and bury his hands in the warm body until the numbness went out of them. Then he could build another fire. He spoke to the dog, calling it to him; but in his voice was a strange note of fear that frightened the animal, who had never known the man to speak in such way before. Something was the matter, and its suspicious nature sensed danger—it knew not what danger, but somewhere, somehow, in its brain arose an apprehension of the man. It flattened its ears down at the sound of the man’s voice, and its restless, hunching movements and the liftings and shiftings of its forefeet became more pronounced; but it would not come to the man. He got on his hands and knees and crawled toward the dog. This unusual posture again excited suspicion, and the animal sidled mincingly away.
The man sat up in the snow for a moment and struggled for calmness. Then he pulled on his mittens, by means of his teeth, and got upon his feet. He glanced down at first in order to assure himself that he was really standing up, for the absence of sensation in his feet left him unrelated to the earth. His erect position in itself started to drive the webs of suspicion from the dog’s mind; and when he spoke peremptorily, with the sound of whip-lashes in his voice, the dog rendered its customary allegiance and came to him. As it came within reaching distance, the man lost his control. His arms flashed out to the dog, and he experienced genuine surprise when he discovered that his hands could not clutch, that there was neither bend nor feeling in the fingers. He had forgotten for the moment that they were frozen and that they were freezing more and more. All this happened quickly, and before the animal could get away, he encircled its body with his arms. He sat down in the snow, and in this fashion held the dog, while it snarled and whined and struggled.
But it was all he could do, hold its body encircled in his arms and sit there. He realized that he could not kill the dog. There was no way to do it. With his helpess hands he could neither draw nor hold his sheath-knife nor throttle the animal. He released it, and it plunged wildly away, with tail between its legs, and still snarling. It halted forty feet away and surveyed him curiously, with ears sharply pricked forward. The man looked down at his hands in order to locate them, and found them hanging on the ends of his arms. It struck him as curious that one should have to use his eyes in order to find out where his hands were. He began threshing his arms back and forth, beating the mittened hands against his sides. He did this for five minutes, violently, and his heart pumped enough blood up to the surface to put a stop to his shivering. But no sensation was aroused in the hands. He had an impression that they hung like weights on the ends of his arms, but when he tried to run the impression down, he could not find it.
A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive, came to him. This fear quickly became poignant as he realized that it was no longer a mere matter of freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet, but that it was a matter of life and death with the chances against him. This threw him into a panic, and he turned and ran up the creek-bed along the old, dim trail. The dog joined in behind and kept up with him. He ran blindly, without intention, in fear such as he had never known in his life. Slowly, as he ploughed and floundered through the snow, he began to see things again,—the banks of the creek, the old timber-jams, the leafless aspens, and the sky. The running made him feel better. He did not shiver. Maybe, if he ran on, his feet would thaw out; and, anyway, if he ran far enough, he would reach camp and the boys. Without doubt he would lose some fingers and toes and some of his face; but the boys would take care of him, and save the rest of him when he got there. And at the same time there was another thought in his mind that said he would never get to the camp and the boys; that it was too many miles away, that the freezing had too great a start on him, and that he would soon be stiff and dead. This thought he kept in the background and refused to consider. Sometimes it pushed itself forward and demanded to be heard, but he thrust it back and strove to think of other things.
It struck him as curious that he could run at all on feet so frozen that he could not feel them when they struck the earth and took the weight of his body. He seemed to himself to skim along above the surface, and to have no connection with the earth. Somewhere he had once seen a winged Mercury, and he wondered if Mercury felt as he felt when skimming over the earth.
His theory of running until he reached camp and the boys had one flaw in it: he lacked the endurance. Several times he stumbled, and finally he tottered, crumpled up, and fell. When he tried to rise, he failed. He must sit and rest, he decided, and next time he would merely walk and keep on going. As he sat and regained his breath, he noted that he was feeling quite warm and comfortable. He was not shivering, and it even seemed that a warm glow had come to his chest and trunk. And yet, when he touched his nose or cheeks, there was no sensation. Running would not thaw them out. Nor would it thaw out his hands and feet. Then the thought came to him that the frozen portions of his body must be extending. He tried to keep this thought down, to forget it, to think of something else; he was aware of the panicky feeling that it caused, and he was afraid of the panic. But the thought asserted itself, and persisted, until it produced a vision of his body totally frozen. This was too much, and he made another wild run along the trail. Once he slowed down to a walk, but the thought of the freezing extending itself made him run again.
And all the time the dog ran with him, at his heels. When he fell down a second time, it curled its tail over its forefeet and sat in front of him, facing him, curiously eager and intent. The warmth and security of the animal angered him, and he cursed it till it flattened down its ears appeasingly. This time the shivering came more quickly upon the man. He was losing in his battle with the frost. It was creeping into his body from all sides. The thought of it drove him on, but he ran no more than a hundred feet, when he staggered and pitched headlong. It was his last panic. When he had recovered his breath and control, he sat up and entertained in his mind the conception of meeting death with dignity. However, the conception did not come to him in such terms. His idea of it was that he had been making a fool of himself, running around like a chicken with its head cut off—such was the simile that occurred to him. Well, he was bound to freeze anyway, and he might as well take it decently. With this new-found peace of mind came the first glimmerings of drowsiness. A good idea, he thought, to sleep off to death. It was like taking an anaesthetic. Freezing was not so bad as people thought. There were lots worse ways to die.
He pictured the boys finding his body next day. Suddenly he found himself with them, coming along the trail and looking for himself. And, still with them, he came around a turn in the trail and found himself lying in the snow. He did not belong with himself any more, for even then he was out of himself, standing with the boys and looking at himself in the snow. It certainly was cold, was his thought. When he got back to the States he could tell the folks what real cold was. He drifted on from this to a vision of the old-timer on Sulphur Creek. He could see him quite clearly, warm and comfortable, and smoking a pipe.
Then the man drowsed off into what seemed to him the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever known. The dog sat facing him and waiting. The brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. There were no signs of a fire to be made, and, besides, never in the dog’s experience had it known a man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the twilight drew on, its eager yearning for the fire mastered it, and with a great lifting and shifting of forefeet, it whined softly, then flattened its ears down in anticipation of being chidden by the man. But the man remained silent. Later, the dog whined loudly. And still later it crept close to the man and caught the scent of death. This made the animal bristle and back away. A little longer it delayed, howling under the stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky. Then it turned and trotted up the trail in the direction of the camp it knew, where were the other food-providers and fire-providers.
If you are a new member of the SBDG, post your views on this story and what parallel(s) it has with learning to survive in a new environment. After all, you are going into the world of women a “new” environment. Please keep your post to less than 200 words. RDS]]>
Why PUA are able to sell shit. They are offer HOPE to the HOPELESS! Women want a long term commitment that’s why they TEST you endlessly. Only about 10% of young women are interested in older men. You will fuck it up with 1/2 of them! Common mistakes men make not being dressed for success, not giving a manly handshake, must maintain slightly aloof and mildly interested. Never CHASE. Let it Happen. Don’t Make It Happen no matter what age you are or she is. Meet her where she works, parties, must be in front of her 3 to 4 times a week. Men in bars are better at this than than you! You don’t play basketball with Michael Jordan. Don’t go to bars! Women are delusional thinking Mr. Right is in a bar. Your Miss Right is never in a bar she has a life! Where Steele meets young, supermarket cashiers, box girls. I am not interested in older women over 27 just have so much baggage and if they have a baby forget it. You damage the child.