This week’s podcast explains how to pull 3-sums, more-sums and take your sex life to the next level.
Have you run away to sea Tom? Why no content? Did you get married and quit daygame? This video explains all…!
Watch me take two novice daygamers out into central London to teach them the Street Hustle toolkit infield.
To get a full understanding of the structures and techniques in the film, check out my daygame textbook Street Hustle.
In my final podcast before a little summer hiatus I discuss how travelling and daygame takes advantage of “arbitrage” where the SMV difference between two locations can be capitalised on. One form is about your DNA, another is about your provisions.
*Early draft of a lay report from my new book “Cold Calling”, released early 2017
This lay report is divided into thirds like a game of Three-Card Monte. It shows both the global nature of daygame and the infinite power of the internet for long-game hustling. Take your eye off the lady and you’ll be hustled yourself.
At the end of 2014 I was going through a big burn out. Two years of relentless daygame travel around the world, a lack of continuity or a base and still reeling from a death in the family. Unplugging from the matrix had left me disorientated.
A fellow British daygamer and flowmad called John suggested we get some late October sunshine in the south of France as a detox. I told him I wasn’t in a good state for daygame but that I’d come for the vitamin D and croissants. I’d not had a non-pickup holiday in years.
John had a thing for arty French girls, like me, so we chose the city of Marseille because of its bohemian vibe in comparison to the yachting crowd of Nice or Cannes. Hipster French girls, lazy days and sunshine; we had high hopes.
I arrived in Marseille airport to blue skies and the smell of pine trees signalling I was in the Mediterranean. John was arriving later so I took a bus into the city and headed for the Port.
I’d not realised how many north Africans had made the city their home and the French girls I did spot were nervously scurrying past groups of guys smoking weed. The city centre was dirty and had a dangerous, tense vibe. Perhaps I should have done my research.
I met John later in the day and we checked into our AirBnB up near the Notra-Dame de la Garde – a gorgeous old apartment with wooden shutters, paintings on every wall, farmhouse tiles and a balcony overlooking the hilltop basilica.
It didn’t take John and I long to adopt the Mediterranean way of life. Each morning one of us would go to the local bakery to buy hot fresh croissants and pan-au-chocolates. We’d brew some fresh coffee and have breakfast on the balcony. Then we’d explore the city – harbour, old town, a boat trip around the island prison that was the inspiration for Dumas’ The Count Of Monte Cristo.
As we explored John would stop and daygame hot girls that he saw out and about. I was trying hard to switch off from approaching, but by the end of the first day I was getting horny and twitchy to daygame.
By the second day I was approaching as much as John, enjoying the new city, new girls and French vibes. My mojo had returned. One of my early approaches was a fast Facebook close of a hot Russian girl who was in the city for a few days with a group on holiday. I’d heard her heels before seeing her, and she immediately stood out with her tight dress and tall slim body. She was mid-twenties, a company director from Moscow and typically monosyllabic.
I quickly forgot about the close and moved onto trying to get some of the local girls out before our trip was up. The Russian girl was busy with her tour group and the probability of anything happening with her small.
Back in the UK during time off from daygame and travel I pinged some of my long game leads. The Marseille Russian had accepted my friend request and we’d been having occasional late night chats. Checking her profile, I realised she had a 2-year old son and had just gone through a divorce (why she’d gone to France). Many girls in Russia marry young and are then divorced by their mid-twenties.
Fast forward a month and there I was in snowy sub-zero Moscow, early December. I’d returned to close two loops from my last trip and teach a student in the giant heated malls full of girls despite the season. On Tverskaya outside my apartment they were calving ice sculptures as girls scurried from the metro station to their work or home, wrapped up in fur but still wearing heels in the snow.
I only had five nights in the city. Three of them were booked with trying to close the other two loops, but I’d still managed to arrange a date with the girl from Marseille on my last evening there.
We met for a drink in the lobby bar of the Ritz Carlton. She was an hour late (very normal in the FSU) but for a genuine reason – Moscow traffic had been crazy because of a snow storm and she’d come straight from work, snow dusting her fur coat, her mum looking after her son. She was one of the “new rich” in Russia with a good salary from her job as a director and the payout from her divorce. She kept her word of paying for the drinks to apologise.
I’d chosen the venue as it was the closest to my apartment in case I was going to pull. We sipped our drinks in the gilded lobby bar as a pianist played jazz classics next to us. I looked out of place in my dirty boots, old jeans and leather jacket and she joked that I needed a rich woman to take care of me. I told her I was a glorified bum and that I didn’t even own a bicycle, just to make sure there wasn’t any provider frame.
She didn’t ask any of the usual Frame Tests but instead opened up about “not wanting to be a strong girl anymore.” She’d divorced her husband because he’d cheated on her while she was away at a business conference. It was clear she hadn’t been on a date in a long time, and had the “happy to be here” look about her. “I want to feel like a teenager again” she beamed.
After an hour her phone rang and it was her mother telling her she needed to come back home to deal with her son. Once again cock blocked by the clock. We walked outside into the snowy night and kissed by the metro steps, making loose plans to maybe meet properly when our paths crossed in Prague in the new year.
Over Christmas the long game pinging with her intensified. She told me her next company meeting was in Prague in January. I’d got two residential sessions booked and we worked out two days when we could possibly meet. The messaging moved from rapport to sexual as she’d ping photos of her in gym clothes, her getting ready for bed, bikini shots and finally naked selfies. The trick is to escalate gradually, getting more and more compliance, sending her photos of you that amp things up along with role play chats that get heavier and heavier.
By the time I landed in Prague a month later we’d had full sex chats and it seemed like a done deal. I was staying in an apartment behind the Palladium shopping centre and she was due to fly into the city a day after me. Like Moscow, the city was muffled by snow, the summer tourists gone and replaced by icy silence.
Coaching over, I headed back to the apartment to shower and go and meet her. Suddenly she went off the text radar. Silence all evening. I was puzzled what had happened to her, it had seemed like a dead cert. Instead I went out for goodbye beers and goulash with my student and then headed back home to crash. Still no messages.
Early the next morning she texted to say she’d randomly bumped into her cousin at the airport and that they were spending time catching up and sightseeing. She suggested a “quick coffee” altogether later.
It was her forebrain taking over her hindbrain at the last hurdle, the common “cold feet” syndrome in Game especially if the lay is not spontaneous and she’s had time to think. The cousin was her excuse to de-rail the train.
Such an attempt at snatching the frame needs short, sharp punishment. I did the only thing left to do and went silent myself, not answering her messages which got more and more frequent. The power of the push, giving her the gift of chasing.
By the following morning she’d caved in and was asking for my apartment address. She was flying out in the evening and had now ditched her cousin to come and find me. I told her to bring coffee as an apology.
As soon as she entered my apartment the build up exploded. Coffees were forgotten as we made out heavily like teenagers on the sofa. “I have bad news” she said as I went to undo her jeans. “It’s woman’s day for me.”
Many Russian girls have a big superstition when it comes to their periods and blood. “Come, come…” I said, taking her towards the bathroom, undressing and turning on the shower. “You don’t mind?” she asked. “I want you” I replied, pulling off her top and undoing her jeans. The hot water of the shower drowned out our moans as the hustle climaxed and I got my winnings for keeping an eye on the prize.
Last night I made soft sweet love on a bed of rose petals to this tune.
I lie. It was one of the most animalistic, sweaty, dominant and raw sexual experiences of my life with this hot heavy tune on loop in the background.
Deep, hard, banging beats. Even better in the dark with red wine in your veins. A German exchange student who I slept with in London introduced me to this track five years ago and it’s still up there as one of the best sex tracks around.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder” as the saying goes. In today’s video from a mystery daygame location I go over how to use the disappearing trick to increase her attraction towards you.
Stepping back lets the silence do the work on your behalf, giving her the gift of chasing you 😉
Here are a few clips of me on a first date with a rather icy Moldovan girl. We’re in the first venue and I’m warming things up, verbally and physically*
Watch out for many of the Street Hustle techniques: spiking, kino, fractionation, qualification, plus set routines that have been tried-and-tested many times.
To see the whole infield, from when I daygamed her to when I sealed the deal with her, check out my infield video product “Stealth Seduction“, released this Autumn.
* On the full infield there are subtitles
Summer in Riga, Latvia, is very relaxing. Even though the university students have gone, the 650,000 locals are all outside soaking up the White Nights after work, sunbathing in the parks and enjoying the festivals scattered around the Old Town.
As long as you stay away from the stag-party titty bars and the packs of drunk foreign guys heading to strip clubs then life is good. Play, but don’t get played.
42% of Riga’s population is Russian so if petite, Scandinavian-like Baltic blondes are not your cup of tea then you can easily find the leggy ice queens of FSU days gone by. Just listen out for the sound of high heels on the cobbled stones and you can be sure she’s Russian.
I’d just finished a residential with a student and had two more days to kill before flying back to London.
Outside McDonalds in the Old Town on Kalku Iela was a very pretty girl dressed in black, smoking a cigarette with her headphones in. She didn’t fit into either of the Russian or Latvian looks – more like something from Soho in New York or London.
“Say what you see and twist it” – that’s my golden rule for the best assumption stacking after the direct compliment. I told her that it was too hot to wear black, and that the Justin Bieber she was listening to was killing her faster than the nicotine.
Things clicked into place nicely. She got the dark humour and played along, telling me she’d had a “shitty day and later had to go to a shitty job” but that negativity was now in fashion. Her English was good enough to really vibe back and forth with.
We role-played about her being the Woman In Black, or Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman, waiting for her love to come back from beyond the ocean. She got every reference which was refreshing after a week of daygame and dates with Barbie blondes.
She was 21 years old, an architecture student who also worked in a dive bar and from Russian heritage. She didn’t fit the usual Barbie-doll style of Russian, more hipster than princess, but that abruptness was still there, just below the surface. Her cat-like eyes kept scanning me to see if I was going to flinch.
We vibed about how she was a Smiths fan and that she didn’t feel the same as other girls her age. Mentally I checked off the green lights: an “outsider” girl who preferred older company, a smoker, a creative personality, a love of sarcastic British humour.
I ran my “Tom & Jerry” routine on her, calling her Jerry because she was petite and I was going to chase her around the house in a love-hate relationship. Once again she took it and played along. More green lights.
She was on her way to meet her brother so I took the last few drags of her cigarette with her, took her number and we went our opposite directions.
This is the text exchange that followed later the same day:
ME: Hey Bieber fan, see you after your work for smokes and dark adventures if you’re in the centre maybe 🙂 T
HER: Hehe 🙂 Yeah, ok. Where are you right now?
ME: With friends eating in the French Institute cafe. What time do you finish tonight?
HER: Actually I’m already done. BUT, I have to meet some people around eight. What say you – tomorrow? Or a quick beer right now?
ME: Tomorrow better, I’m still feeding my face
HER: Lucky face haha!
[The next day]
ME: So, Tom politely requests the drinking company of Jerry tonight after 7pm….
HER: I’m working till nine o’clock so I’ll see you in the Old Town around that time.
ME: Deal. Wear black to scare me.
HER: 9.10 by McDonalds
HER: Aaaand I will be late 10 min
ME: Loser…you buy the first drinks 😉
HER: Fair enough
10 minutes came and went, so rather than hanging around by McDonalds I went back to my apartment which was just a stone’s throw away. Perhaps she’d flaked? Maybe she was going to be really late. It’s always better to keep the frame by not standing around waiting for her.
A few minutes later she texted “Where are you?” and I went down to meet her. By now it was past 9.30pm which is always a good sign when having a date. The later she meets you, the higher the chance of a fast lay.
I walked her to Cuba Cafe bar in Rigas Doms square, a cosy venue we’d been using all week because of the dark sofa vibes and good dj. It was grungy enough to kill any “provider” expectations a girl might have.
It was pretty full because it was Friday night, so we squeezed into two armchairs next to each other, surrounded by big groups of German tourists. Not ideal but better to seem unfazed and decisive than try to change venue and seem off-balance in front of her.
She was looking hotter than when we’d met on the street. One common advantage of daygame is that when they turn up for the date then they’re even more attractive. Night game to a first date is the opposite.
The conversation flowed easily from the moment we sat down, as the ironic dark humour opened things up more than the first whiskey cokes. I made fun of her hipster negativity and qualified her, saying I only spent time around positive people who were usually taller.
We role-played about her “fashionable suicidal thoughts” and that she should smoke a pipe instead of cigarettes to be the number one hipster in Riga.
One of my sticking points to this day is enjoying the dating too much. When things click with a girl I get carried away in the vibing. She’s laughing and I’m laughing. Stories are being told and the time is flying by. One beer becomes two or three, and the enjoyment continues.
But this is the opposite of seductive. I’m breaking tension, I’m putting myself in the “very interesting guy” boyfriend or friend box. I’m giving away my power by revealing too much before sex. I’ve not got my eye on the prize, I’ve forgotten the plan to move towards the end goal.
Russians and FSU girls will punish a guy for this when she feels the male-female polarity slipping. The Frame Tests started coming thick and fast, blindsiding me after the fun vibing we’d had.
How old was I? Why was I single? Why was I in Riga? Did I bring lots of girls to that bar?
The girl is your mirror. She was reminding me to get back to the Game plan and take back control. No more Mr Entertainer – I needed to ground things, get real and then move into seduction.
I answered her Frame Test questions with non-reactivity rather than too much cocky-funny. We spoke about how English stag parties and sex tourists to Riga ruined the chilled atmosphere of the city, and I told her a bit about my travelling and my family.
Things had become a bit static, we’d been sitting for too long – a classic date mistake. We went out onto the terrace outside and smoked a cigarette, giving me a chance to start physically escalating. I examined the rings on her finger and she showed me one of a snake.
“See, the snake’s fucking my finger” she said, grinning and doing the spiking herself.
Time to shift gears. I took her hands and compared their size to mine, asking if she played the guitar. She told me she wanted to learn the violin but that she “couldn’t commit to anything for too long.”
The couple next to us were listening in and watching me flirt with her. On purpose I made sure they could hear the next routine, as I measured the distance between her thumb and little finger, telling her it was an accurate representation of the size of her ex boyfriend’s…personality. They laughed on cue, which made her blush and helped with the sexual tension.
Back inside a sofa had become available next to the dj booth. One more drink then I planned to bounce her to the apartment via a corner shop to pick up alcohol.
She was now very relaxed, passing the “Floppy Test” of sitting next to me and accepting my arm occasionally around her or when I’d come into her space. She told me about her Russian background and about her dreams of travelling around Iceland listening to Sigur Ros.
Time for the Questions Game. Immediately she was up for it. More green lights as she told me about never having a real boyfriend, and how she preferred friends-with-benefits. She’d had a short relationship with a girl and for a while she thought she was bi.
I told her about some of my weirdest sexual experiences, and we agreed on how it’s possible to separate sexual from emotional if you’ve tried enough things.
“If you replace the words ‘love’ and ‘lust’ with ‘connection’ then it’s all the same thing. We’re all spinning around on this planet hungry for the moment….” I said in my best Oscar-worthy dramatic voice. Her eyes exploded. It was time to bounce.
As we walked out I told her I needed to find a shop to buy some cigars and beers. It was past 11.30pm and we couldn’t find anything open, so I took a gamble and just walked her to my door.
There wasn’t any token resistance like I’d had all week with other Russians I’d try to take home. Up in the apartment we put on some John Mayer and I prayed that his seductive gravely voice would do the final pulling of the trigger for me.
She went to the window in the kitchen looking out over the Old Town and opened it up, leaning out to smoke. I went up behind her, pulled her long brown hair into a pony tail and kissed her neck.
She spun around and the make-out was wild. Not kissing girls in the bar on the first date was my new strategy, helping keep the sexual tension until they were in isolation and ready to close properly.
The sex was the best I’d had in months, she was so uninhibited about her body. We fucked with clothes on as she leant out of the window, on the sofa as we tore off layers, on the floor in a tangle of limbs.
I’d struck gold – a liberated Russian with a high sex drive and a preference for older guys. She told me she’d made the decision to sleep with me when I’d held her hand to look at her rings in the bar. “Before that you reminded me of my friend” she said. “I wasn’t sure you found me attractive until after you were touching me.”
Spot on feedback from her. Even though the final bounce and lay had come easily, the date had still taught me a lot about my own sticking points. Girls are giving you this micro and macro subtle feedback whenever you interact with them. You’ve just got to learn to listen.
To find out more about my daygame, texting and dating toolkit, check out my textbook “Street Hustle.”
Today I talk about the benefits and downsides to having a harem of girls for casual sex in open relationships. Why could sex-on-tap be bad for a bachelor?