Why Can't I Use a Smiley Face Read online

  Why Can’t I Use A Smiley Face?

  Roosh V

  © 2013 by Roosh V

  http://www.rooshv.com

  All rights reserved.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Leaving

  The Arrival

  The First Night

  The Bang

  The Argument

  The Visa

  The Casino

  The Pussy Violator

  The Rich

  The Meetup

  The Slap

  The Punch

  The Goodbye

  The Leaving

  “Petra told me I was the first guy to come inside her,” I said.

  “Was she telling the truth?” Dexter asked.

  “I believe so.”

  I didn’t think she was lying because there were no slut warning signs, not like the girl Dexter just smashed. She let him raw dog on the second round and commented how she liked being tied up. The biggest sign, by far, was when she told Dexter, “I don’t usually do this.”

  She took it to the next level the following morning when her girlfriend came for coffee to state how “surprised” she was that Dexter was able to take his conquest home so soon. Sluts have a damage control routine after banging a guy, not much different than a routine I’d use to get them into bed. Nice girls don’t have a routine because they think what they just did was a one-in-a-million chance event, dictated by the stars. They hug you close and close their eyes, savoring the moment.

  Dexter’s girl, in her late twenties, hinted that she was having trouble securing a long-term relationship. And so it goes, the gradual transformation of another woman into a spinster. This isn’t a complaint, since my dick has benefited from this degradation countless times, but I wonder if something is lost when women start seeing men as no more than vessels for short-term sexual pleasure.

  For a man it takes about fifty or so notches before his brain is permanently affected by his sexual experiences. Sex becomes a commodity and his dealings with women become ruthless and manipulative. The concept of love becomes more mathematical than romantic.

  It’s harder to estimate when women begin to decline. I don’t think there’s a university professor anywhere studying the cock number at which a girl’s ability to find a lifelong companion becomes impossible. If there is, he’ll be immediately dismissed from the school once the study is released. I estimate that it takes ten male partners for a woman to start realizing that she doesn’t “need” a man. Any man who dates her after that will get half-assed relationship efforts and increased entitlement. She knows how easy it is to get another cock that, though maybe not as good as yours, will validate her nonetheless.

  Petra’s body was thin, her long legs flexible and toned, and her complexion tan and smooth. She was nervous when we first had sex and didn’t make much noise. It wasn’t until the sixth or seventh time that she finally got into it. Her pussy became so responsive that foreplay was no longer needed.

  On the fourth date, she said, “I missed you” when we greeted each other in the main square. She was on her period. That’s when she let me blast inside her. At twenty-six, I figure she has been with seven guys.

  She came over the night before I was to return to Washington DC. After a couple hours of food and sex, I walked her to my doorway. I hovered above my body, looking down as she got teary-eyed. I saw myself trying to conjure up some type of emotion to make it seem as if I was sad. For a second, I considered thinking of my parents dying so that my goodbye would seem more sincere. It’s during these goodbyes, when I’m unable to feel, that I question what the game has done to me. I really did like Petra, but Europe’s womb seems to produce an unlimited supply of her. You lose one and there quickly comes another.

  The Arrival

  My mom jumped up from her seat in the arrival hall at the airport and rushed to greet me. A couple weeks before, she told me on the phone, not so cheerfully, “If I knew you were going to leave, I would have had more sons.”

  I gave her a big hug and she yelled, “My baby’s back!”

  She appeared to have shrunk slightly. My sister was next to get a hug, and after that was a continuation of the conversation we had the night before, and every Sunday before that.

  The story wasn’t much different at my dad’s house. Big hugs with Dad, my two younger brothers, and my stepmom. We sat at the kitchen table, talked for an hour, and then went to bed. The next morning I resumed a routine I’d done in his house hundreds of times before: eat breakfast on the living room table while skimming through The Washington Post, the paper copy that my dad still receives.

  The anticipation of coming back from a long trip is more exciting than the reality. I’m always tempted to think I missed so much that it will require weeks of catching up and that I’ll need to concentrate hard—maybe even meditate—to soak in all the changes. But besides an old bar closing, a new building going up, or a friend banging some new broad, the changes are always insignificant.

  What’s most disheartening is the line my friends and family parrot to me: “You haven’t missed anything.” Every time I think, “There has to be something I missed, some surreal event or legendary night out,” but no, I haven’t missed anything.

  When you don’t see someone for nearly two years, it only takes two minutes to feel like you never left them. It’s almost disappointing how anticlimactic returns can be. I want it to be exciting. I want to feel like the world has changed. But the world hasn’t changed. Your family and friends continue to live the same life as before you left, while you’ve done things they couldn’t possibly understand. The saddest part is that the change you go through while living abroad puts you even farther apart from those you care about most. It’s harder to identify with them, their stability, and their reluctance to dive into the life you love.

  The First Night

  My first night out was a Friday. My friend Virgle Kent told me to meet him at a new place on U Street. I got there early and ordered a scotch. Coming back after so long, I was expecting women to be even fatter than before, but things didn’t seem to have gotten worse. I saw a group of six girls celebrating a birthday and taking pictures. They weren’t unattractive, but made no attempt to make eye contact with anyone. Each girl wanted pictures on her phone so they struck the same pose for multiple cameras. Their teeth were whiter than anything I had seen in Europe.

  On my right was another group—three girls and one guy. The girls were deep in a conversation that I could hear perfectly. They were talking about a weekend trip, the things that happened, who attended, and the problems that came about from one girl liking a guy. They went on about the most minor of details, as if to fill in space. If I told a story like them, I’d right now be describing all the patrons of the bar, what they were wearing, their height, their eyebrow thickness, their body shapes, and their favorite beverage.

  Sitting on my left were two girls who were finishing a meal. I could hear them perfectly, too. One said, “Last night we went to so-and-so restaurant and it was awful! It was like eating in a dungeon! It was, like, so depressing!” I’m sure it was.

  Earlier in the day while on the bus, a girl sat next to me and had a phone conversation about how she had broken her nail and how much it sucked. At the coffee shop a barista was loudly recapping a night out, to the point where I perfectly understood her sexual tastes and flirting style. Though she was unattractive, the optimum game to fuck her couldn’t help but enter my head.

  Americans want you to know they exist and are a unique snowflake, with something special going on in their lives. They get happiness by impressing strangers, while Europeans tend to avoid strangers. At the same time, Americans block out their environment with earbuds. If
they’re talking, they want everyone to hear it, but if they’re not, they don’t want to hear you.

  I talked to Virgle regularly on the phone while I was in Europe, so there was nothing to catch up on when he came in with another friend. We went up to the roof and were greeted by a big crowd. At first glance, it didn’t seem so bad—the scene was lively and everyone appeared to be having a good time. I showed Virgle pictures on my phone of some European girls I had fucked. I said, “I’m much more calm now. I feel like a gentle lamb, with none of the rage I had before I left. European girls changed me for the better.”

  I judge a venue by how many approachable girls there are, and by approachable I mean pretty girls who are in groups smaller than four, without any males present. In Europe, it was common to be in a club with so many approachable sets that I had trouble picking which to approach, especially if the groups were standing near each other. I couldn’t handle choosing, maybe because I never had to do that in DC, so I’d just wait until all the attractive girls moved away from me except the last, which I’d then eagerly attack.

  The rooftop was big. There were at least 100 people, but for a long time there wasn’t anything to approach—only a couple pairs of unattractive girls who seemed thirsty judging by their slow stares. They were slump-busters and nothing more.

  Attractive girls were in bigger groups and plugged into their cell phones. As the night went on, I saw some opportunities with 6s who had thick arms. They’re the type of girl that causes you to rub your chin for a couple seconds, squint your eyes, and ask yourself, “Do I really want to bang that?” While thinking about it, you subconsciously hope she walks away so you won’t have to act.

  In Europe, girls text on their phones, but after sending the text, they put the phone away. In this bar, the girls wouldn’t put their phones down. I gave up waiting for one girl to stop texting and approached while she was still staring at her screen. She responded favorably, lowering her phone to her stomach, and I thought maybe I was interesting enough to possibly beat the phone. Thirty seconds later, however, she got a call. She showed me the screen, saying, “It’s Kate. I have to answer!” She did and then walked away.

  Virgle later introduced a girl that took me a few seconds to recognize. She regularly attended the DC blogger happy hours we had co-hosted five years earlier. Her face had definitely improved for she had gotten rid of the acne, but it was canceled out by what appeared to be heavy weight gain. I didn’t know it at the time, but she had conspired with Virgle to meet me at the bar, just to find out if I was “still a dick.”

  “You’re looking good,” I told her, being polite. I hoped she liked the softer, gentler Roosh that Europe molded.

  “So you’re back now?” she said. “I think I read about it somewhere.”

  “Yeah, you know, coming back to visit family and friends for a while.”

  “So you’re not staying long?”

  “No, there’s no way. Europe is like filet mignon, and coming back here is like going back to ground beef. You just endure it until you can get back to what makes you happy.”

  “Well, not everyone wants to move just to get laid,” she said, apparently deciding on the “sex tourist” attack.

  I said, “It’s easy to say that when you’re already in a city that’s great for women. Look around at how many more guys there are than girls.”

  “It’s not about that,” she said. “I shouldn’t live in a city just because it’s easier to get a guy.”

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Thirty.”

  “Are you single?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe you should.”

  She turned away. Later she told Virgle that I was, in fact, still a dick. There’s a long line of European girls who would disagree with that.

  We went to another bar that was more like a stinky basement. Right away, an older woman looked at me and let out a big smile. A freebie. I approached her and she commented how I was “different” from all the other guys there. I told her I lived in Europe for the past couple of years and she seemed pleased that her assessment was correct.

  The bar was dark but I could tell that she was older than me. Her body was fine, and I’m sure she had been a looker back in her day, but a dank basement was no place for a woman of her age.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “You first.”

  “Thirty-three, and you?”

  “How old do you think?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Yeah,” she said quickly, relieved that I thought she was three or four years younger than her actual age. I let it go and decided to see what the cougar scene was all about, surprised at how quickly my standards were going out the window in such a low-quality environment. Had I been in Zagreb, I wouldn’t even have noticed her, let alone talked to her. If mediocre girls like her can still get attention from guys, maybe their entitled attitudes make sense. Maybe I’m the one who feeds the beast.

  Within ten minutes, she leaped up and planted a wet one on my lips. I went with it and we made out for a while. The kiss wasn’t too bad but she felt as if she had to explain it. She said, “Before we left the house, my friend and I made a bet on who would kiss a handsome guy first.”

  “Lame,” my boner replied, as it softened about 5% and prepared for an onslaught of bullshit that was about to come.

  Her 28-year-old friend was a drunk blonde who was giving eye contact to every guy in the bar. They’d make an attempt, she’d flirt with them, touch them, then laugh and walk away. As I saw all the guys entertaining her, I felt more guilty for giving my cougar a chance at a guy who, all ego aside, could compete well with most of the male clientele present.

  The cougar had a habit of abruptly ending the conversation with me to go babysit her blonde friend with whichever new guy she was talking to. She seemed to get a kick out of playing matchmaker, but she started to make me look like a fool, expecting me to wait for her every time she left. A man can only take so much from a girl he doesn’t even like.

  She gave me a kiss then said, “Hold on, I have to talk to that guy over there to hook my friend up.”

  “You go talk to that guy and when you come back I won’t be here,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not going to wait while you talk to him.”

  “Whatever. I had a boyfriend for three years and he was controlling just like you. That’s why I broke up with him.”

  “You can do whatever you want. You can talk to him, but I’ll be gone.”

  “I don’t believe that. You’re blowing it, you know. Do you want this to work or not?”

  “It’s my way or the highway.”

  She said nothing while I looked around. Then she put her arms around me and kissed me. I wanted to laugh that I was being tested by an older woman who wasn’t that attractive. I was curious how many poor saps had failed her stupid tests only to wonder why things suddenly went south.

  Something inside me started to come alive, a part of me I hadn’t seen in a while. It was the part that wanted to hurt a woman, just for the hell of it.

  Whenever I made a joke that was too cocky for her, she’d say, “You’re blowing it.” Blowing what, exactly? Ten minutes of penetration in your worn vagina? She tried to direct how the seduction would proceed by giving a running DVD commentary on everything I said. We were having more of a panel discussion than a conversation.

  Soon I suspected she was a lawyer, so I asked about her job. “I am a lawyer,” she said. “I prosecute rapists.” My heart stopped for a moment as I pictured myself in five years, rotting in a jail cell, asking myself why I had to bang a rape-obsessed lawyer chick. I’m surprised I didn’t walk away right then, but the prospect of easy sex is a weakness for many men.

  Last call arrived and we went outside and sat on a bench. “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “I just got out of the relationship, so I’m staying with my parents in Georgetown. My friend is stayi
ng there, too.” At that moment her friend was doing gymnast splits in a circle of black guys. “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “I’m staying with my dad in Maryland.” I already told her I wasn’t in town for long.

  “Well, why don’t you take my number? We can go to dinner.”

  I chuckled. Her face turned upside down. “Wait, so you don’t want my number?”

  “Honestly, no. I told you when we met that I’m only here for a month and now you want to go on dates. I’m sorry, but I have a lot to do. I can’t take you on a date.”

  “So it’s either a one-night stand or nothing?”

  I nodded. My boner, by this point, was gone.

  “Hey I wonder if I could still catch the metro home,” I wondered aloud.

  “So now you want to leave because you’re not getting laid? I don’t believe this. Stop hurting me.”

  “But taxis are expensive.”

  “I don’t believe this!” she repeated. Believe it.

  “Look, there’s no future here. I told you that from the beginning. Why is that hard to understand?”

  “Because there is something here,” she said, her face getting animated. “There are airplanes, you know. I don’t kiss you like I kiss other guys. It’s different, and now you’re telling me you don’t feel anything for me?”

  As I shrugged, her friend interrupted to say she was going to a burger joint with the black guys.

  “So you always meet girls and kiss like that?”

  “Europe has a lot of beautiful, feminine women,” I answered, “but I don’t want to argue. Let me go see where my friend is.” I got up and walked away. I turned around to see the effect of my handiwork. Her jaw was on her lap. I was getting a kick out of it.

  I found Virgle standing on the sidewalk talking to a German girl. A moment later, the cougar came up to me, telling me how stupid I was for being willing to “throw it all away.” I started painting strokes with her emotions, giving her a compliment about her soft lips while being blunt about not wanting to go on a date with her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and that pleased me. I hated her.