Since a lot of you are smart and successful, perhaps you’ll serve as a brain trust.

My boss is a great guy, and we have a great relationship. We work well together and enjoy each other’s company.

Today he proposed an idea.

He wants me to sign a lifetime employment contract.

“Whoa, that’s pretty weird. Besides, lifetime employment contracts are unenforceable.”

He assured me that there is a specific lifetime employment contract that courts will enforce.

I was listening.

“Here’s the deal. I’m an honest guy, so let me make some disclosures. This business has a 50% chance of failing within 10 years. If it does fail, you’ll pay me 50% of your net worth outright. You’ll then – depending on what the judge enforcing our contract had for lunch – pay me anywhere from 40-60% of your earnings, in the form of a monthly check, each month for the next 10-20 years.”

I was really confused. But there must be an upside. Otherwise, there’s no court in the world that would enforce the contract.

“OK, I’ll promise you a substantial portion of my net worth. This must mean you’ll guarantee me future employment.”

He explained why I was wrong. “No, that’s not how this contract works. You will remain employed at-will. This means I can fire you for any reason or no reason at all. I can fire you if you bore me. I don’t even need to explain my reasons. You’ll just show up to work one day, and your stuff will be gone.”

The idea seemed off-the-wall. Is my boss going crazy?

I summed it up, “OK, so you’re saying that you guarantee nothing. You can end the relationship tomorrow. Even if you end it, and even if it’s your fault the relationship ends, I’ll still be required to pay you 50% of my net worth immediately, and then continue paying you for additional decades?”

“See, you’re a smart guy. That’s why I want you to sign the contract. A smart guy like you is more likely to end up paying me more money in the long run. You understand the contract perfectly.”

Perhaps I’m a bit dull today. There must be an upside. Otherwise, I’d be insane to enter into the agreement.

Should I sign the contract?

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We were in the back seat of her car hooking up. She let me pull her shirt up but wouldn’t let me take it off. She also wouldn’t let me take off her pants.

Anyone who has dated Indian girls know how annoying they are, and how hard they are to close. I knew this girl wasn’t going to let me fuck her in the back seat of her car, and that she was going to require some secret moves.

“My dick hurts,” I told her, as I unbuttoned my own jeans, exposing it to her. She looked at it but didn’t move.

“You aren’t just going to leave me like this, are you?” I pulled her hand towards me, but she pulled it back.

Indian girls are selfish teases, and she would have no problem leaving me hanging.

“Fine then. I’ll take care of it myself.”

I started playing with her tits, spit in my hand, and started masturbating.

She still wouldn’t join in the fun, but she wasn’t freaked out. “Don’t get any of this on my seat,” she told me as I was about to cum.

Often finding myself in sketchy situations, I wear a tight American Apparel ribbed tank top under my shirts. It comes in handy when you need to clean up bodily fluids.

I came into my tank top, zipped up, and said, “Let’s go.”

She drove me home, and parked her car, “I don’t want to risk a DUI,” she said, and walked upstairs with me.

The next morning I had one of those, “Does the notch count if…” discussions with my boy.

“Hey, man,” I asked, “Does it count if you get it halfway in, but can’t get it all the way in, because she’s too tight?”

“Ah, man, that’s a tough one. You had the intent. She had the intent, but you weren’t fully in.”

“Yeah, but I was halfway in. Do I gotta be balls deep? She told me she had only been with two other guys, and I believed her. My dick would only go halfway in before she started screaming in pain. I did like 3 or 4 half pumps. Does it count?”

“I don’t know. We should ask some other guys.”

How did I take a girl who had only had sex with two other guys – with a tight pussy to prove it – and get an arguable one night stand out of her?

By masturbating, I took advantage of the anchoring heuristic:

The anchoring and adjustment heuristic was first theorized by Amos Tversky and Daniel Kahneman. In one of their first studies, the two showed that when asked to guess the percentage of African nations that are members of the United Nations, people who were first asked “Was it more or less than 10%?” guessed lower values (25% on average) than those who had been asked if it was more or less than 65% (45% on average). The pattern has held in other experiments for a wide variety of different subjects of estimation.

If we had just made out in her car, anything else sexual would have been anchored to the make out. Going from making out to sex is a big jump.

By masturbating in her car while playing with her tits, we had created a new anchor. We had gone farther than making out, thereby bringing us closer to boning.

Next time, don’t settle for the make out. If possible, at least pull out your dick. If you can get her to touch it, even better. If not, just let her know that your cock is too swollen to go back into your jeans, and that, “Either you’re taking care of this, or I am.”

Masturbating will set your anchor nearer the desired destination – pussy port.

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“Beware of players bearing gifts.”

If you’re going to fuck a girl, you need to either get her to your house, or get inside her house. It is really hard to get inside a girl’s apartment after the first date. Whenever possible, you should meet a girl near your place. But let’s talk about the more challenging problem: What happens if you meet near her place?

The best way into a girl’s house is to use the Trojan Horse method.

I was out with my boy on a Saturday night. We hung out with two girls, and I made plans to see one of the girls later. I learned from conversation that the girl was into gin.

On Monday, I went to Cask to purchase an exotic gin. Around 5 o’clock, I texted her, “I just picked up a bottle of gin, supposed to have a floral finish. Try it out?”

Since you can’t bring a bottle of gin to a park or bar, the question had a hidden connotation.

If I had asked her to come over to my crib, or invited myself over, she could have said no. Asking if she wanted to watch a DVD was too obvious.

“Sure,” she said. “Cool, I’ll be over around 8.”

I ended up boning her, much to her surprise. She was not a dumb girl. Like most girls, she knows to meet guys out. By meeting guys outside of her apartment, she lowers the temptation for having sex. Even if she has a moment of weakness, she can cool off on the way back to her place.

I didn’t ask to come over to her place. I asked her to share a bottle of exotic gin. She wasn’t focused on my coming over. She was focused on the gin.

If you are a hypnotist or NLP guy, you’ll see right away what I did. I embedded a suggestion. “Let me come over.” Or, if you’re a lawyer, you’ll say that I framed the issue not as, “Let a strange man into your house,” but instead, “Let’s share some gin.”

I hid myself into the gift.

You could similarly offer to bring over a bottle of wine. Just make sure you sell her on the Trojan Horse.

Don’t say, “Let’s drink a bottle of wine.” She’ll see right away what you’re doing. If the gift doesn’t distract her, it’s not a Trojan Horse.

Provide some color. I bought some gin that had a floral finish. Floral has her thinking of flowers. Flowers feel soft, flowers smell good. Her mind is wandering.

If the girl doesn’t like gin, say, “I just got back from wine country. Let’s open up a bottle.”

She won’t focus on letting a strange man in. She’ll imagine the rolling green hills of Napa County. She’ll imagine dating a man of means – the kind of man who travels to wine country.

If you don’t actually go to wine country, say, “My parents just returned from wine country. Let’s open a bottle.”

She is now thinking of the kind of man whose family can afford nice vacations. She’s imagining a man who spends time with his family.

She is thinking about everything other than you being in her apartment.

Offer the girl a gift, and you’ll be in like Achilles.

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When it comes to game, guys are like Jews: Five guys, six opinions.

Why do guys have so many different opinions on game? There are two reasons. The first reason is shitty, and we’ll dispose of it quickly.

Lots of guys like to argue just for the sake of arguing. Most people who know nothing can’t shut the fuck up and sit still. They need to contribute something – even if it has no value – just to feel good about themselves. If I had to guess, most guys posting on game message boards haven’t had 10 lifetime sexual partners.

Yet there are guys who are getting laid who disagree about game. Guys disagree because of our different backgrounds and personality types.

I scoped an advanced copy of Roosh’s 30 Bangs. In 30 Bangs, Roosh talks about some of his early lays. In reading the book, one cannot help but realize something.

Roosh is a nice guy, who in a different era, would be married with children. He probably had a pretty good childhood, and didn’t have any real issues.

His style of game is thus very chill.

For whatever reason, in about the third grade I became the target of bullies. I got beat up a lot, and had to choose between learning to fight or finding some other way to avoid being bullied.

I spent hours (really, hundreds of hours) beating a heavy bag while listening to Guns ‘N Roses. I read books by samurai philosophers. I ordered Chinese herbs out of kung fu movies, and when I saw Bloodsport, decided to toughen my skins by kicking progressively thicker pieces of wood.

In an article about Benny “The Jet” Urquidez, I learned that kick boxers would toughen their bodies up by beating each other or themselves with rolled up magazines. I would take my shirt off and ask my dad to smack my body.

I even thought a bamboo sword and would hit myself. As a parlor trick for friends, I’d stand in place with my skin exposes, and tell them to hit me as hard as possible with a broom handle.

I was not born a natural fighter, but got really good at fighting, and as a freshman, I was the toughest kid in school. When a couple of seniors were going to “initiate me,” I suggested we fight after school. They didn’t show up, and word got around not to mess with me.

Since my genetics for fighting were not great (I was a chubby kid with high levels of empathy), I had to develop an incredible force of will. I did not endure pain because it was easy: I willed myself through it.

Now what do you suppose happens to a guy who beats his body up with rolled magazines and spends the weekends doing 10, 3-minute rounds on the heavy bag?

I became downright scary. I developed the gaze of a serial killer.

Once while in New York for Model UN, a friend and I went to a bar. I was dancing by myself, curious why girls kept turning me down.

A very cute girl – better looking than anything I had pulled – came up to me. “My friends dared me to go dance with the scary guy.”

Girls never said I gave off the creepy vibe. Creepiness is a sign of weakness. I was scary.

After a girl I had the worst puppy love crush on told me, “I always wanted to talk to you, but was afraid,” I had to learn some game.

Thus, much of game is devoted to toning myself down. Shaving my face makes me look like, in one girl’s words, “a Russian serial killer.” I always keep a little scruff to soften my look.

If you are a hard ass who wears fashionable clothing – I’ve taken to cardigans – girls view you as edgy and dangerous rather than scary.

Yet my aggression and combativeness have become as natural to me as my skin color. My friends accuse me of having “Rape Game,” not because of how I act when a girl is in the bedroom, but because of my aggression in the clubs. If I like a girl, I just grab her arm and pull her towards me.

My friends also laugh, because my Rape Game works. When girls say, “Wow, you’re aggressive,” it’s natural to reply, “I take what I want.”

I never worry about guys “AMOG’ing” me, because guys just don’t pull that bullshit around me. One guy who rarely goes out says, “I love going out with you guys, because you just take over a place.”

My style of game wouldn’t work for an insecure guy, though. You need Supreme Confidence to walk into a room, make eye contact with everyone, and think, “I could fuck any girl or fuck up any guy.”

Supreme Confidence

Thus, it’s important to remember that there is no right or wrong style of game. Each guy has to find the style that suits his psychological temperament.

A guy who finds a style of game right for him is indistinguishable from a natural.

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Patrick Bateman: Did you know that Whitney Houston’s debut LP, called simply Whitney Houston had 4 number one singles on it? Did you know that, Christie?
Elizabeth: [laughing] You actually listen to Whitney Houston? You own a Whitney Houston CD? More than one?
Patrick Bateman: It’s hard to choose a favorite among so many great tracks, but “The Greatest Love of All” is one of the best, most powerful songs ever written about self-preservation, dignity. Its universal message crosses all boundaries and instills one with the hope that it’s not too late to better ourselves. Since, Elizabeth, it’s impossible in this world we live in to empathize with others, we can always empathize with ourselves. It’s an important message, crucial really. And it’s beautifully stated on the album.

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It puts caveman game to shame:

There was no such check on his other hungers, though: He loved women, and he loved them in bulk. “We’re in this bank line once in Venice, and he’s making eyes at the teller, a big old girl with a huge ass,” says Dan Howard, a Mr. America entrant who managed Gold’s Gym for four years. “Arnold says, ‘You haff nice breasts; now please to turn around. . . . Ah, yes, I like your backside. Take my phone number.’ ” Another time, Arnold brought a generously rumped skier to dinner at a crowded steakhouse. “He says to me, ‘Watch this,’ and throws her dress over her head; sure enough, she’s wearing no panties,” says Howard. “She runs sobbing from the place, then comes back in and says he told her not to wear any.” Drasin remembers feasting with Arnold at Donkin’s Inn, a dive bar and dance joint in Marina del Rey, where the crew had the run of big-haired girls who drove in from the Valley on weekend nights. “They’d come over and grab our pecs and say, ‘Are those things real? How do you get ’em so big?’ ” There were parties at the place Arnold shared with Columbu, orgies at a Venice bungalow, and a nightclub stocked with beach girls that Waller ran as a kind of private reserve. Often enough, they didn’t have to leave the gym; women wandered in from the nude beach in Venice, wanting a private tour of the lockers. “They got it, too,” says Drasin, “though it wasn’t unheard of to bang ’em right there on the gym floor.”

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