Monday, October 1, 2012

Go Where The Fish Are

I'm not much of a fisherman, unfortunately.  That's not because I'm not interested, but because I'm impatient.


My grandfather tried in vain to instill a sense of patience sufficient to allow five whole minutes to pass in silence while we fished from his boat.  An enthusiastic if unremarkable angler, my grandfather was one of those guys for whom a bad day drowning worms beat a good day doing just about anything else.  It was the process, not the fish, that he enjoyed.  But as a kid I just couldn't hold still for very long, so he figured out early on that in order to engage my interest enough to permit him to enjoy himself, I had to get a fish every now and then.  So when we'd go for more than five minutes without a nibble, he'd sigh, start the engine, and move to another part of the lake.

Eventually I asked him why we kept going further into the wilderness  and why we changed spots so quickly.   He looked at me sagely.

"Ian, if you don't have the time to be patient, sometimes it's just easier to go where the fish are."



 My grandfather's advice came back to me when I was sitting at a penny-slot machine, waiting for Mrs. Ironwood to get out of her conference.  I was at the Rio in Las Vegas, which is a pretty impressive (if in need of renovations) casino resort complex.  For one thing, it has Penn & Teller, two of the funniest magicians in the world.  It also has the World Series of Poker every year, and hot-and-cold-running Texas Hold'em tournaments four times a day.

But it also has Chippendales.  And it's one of the cheapest shows in the joint.

Chippendales are, of course, the internationally renown group of male burlesque strippers.  They were Magic Mike before there was a Magic Mike.  Featuring a constantly-rotating cast of buff young men, the Chippendales are perhaps the most socially-acceptable all-male hetero revue a woman could attend.  The fellas strut and dance, work the ladies up into a frenzy, and then pose for pictures afterward while the ladies are basking int he afterglow.

Only, the ladies don't actually have an afterglow.  Indeed, the ladies-only show has a tendency to keep them in a frenzy.  With that much raw testosterone and musculature flexing in their faces -- not to mention the large, economy-sized slabs of penis these fellas carry just a scrap of nylon from the noses of said ladies -- you can just imagine what kind of raw Alpha inspiration they've been exposed to.  By the time they get to pictures, some of these women (who apparently haven't been touched by a man in a long, long time) are near to quivering with anticipation.

If there was ever a place where the fish were, so to speak, this is it.

Seriously, for my single male readers who are trying to round out their idea of Game over here in the married parts of the 'sphere, remember that if you're fishing scant waters you'll likely go home with an empty basket -- whether your fishing catch-and-release or you plan to eat it.

I talk to plenty of single dudes who are eager for Game advice, and then get bitter when the same crappy bars and book clubs are introducing them to the same small pool of pussy.  Pussy often requiring far more Game than it's worth.  But hanging outside of the Chippendales show and watching everyone from a nineteen-year-old bridesmaid to a sixty-nine year old spinster leave slug trails across the casino after that show suggests that finding a large pool of pre-seduced women is like my grandfather and I stumbling across a school of starving fish.

Remember, fellas: women have responsive desire, which means that they don't get hot without a reason, usually.  Women are also more-likely to seek out such stimulating entertainment as the pecs and abs of the Chippendales when they are close to ovulation -- prime sexy time -- and when they go in groups, the FSM mandates that they take a sluttier approach than, perhaps, they are used to.  Throw them into a vat of Primal Alpha, pheromones, cheap drinks and What Happens In Vegas, and the result is -- excuse the expression -- like shooting fish in a barrel.

As I've mentioned in the past, it doesn't really matter who is the perpetrator of the Alpha is -- if a woman witnesses an Alpha performance of any kind, it's going to start the tap running.  You can take advantage of it or not, but once it's running, it's pretty damn hard to shut off.  Put a horny chick in a room full of other horny chicks and stick the biggest dick they've ever seen three inches from her nose, and that's enough to make a nun gush.

Nor were the ladies in attendance uniformly old spinsters with cobwebs in their coochies: thanks to Vegas being a popular spot for bachelorette parties, and Chippendales being a mandatory stop on that circuit.  There were plenty of young, hot, and single babes panting and flushing after the show.  A blind homeless dude could have gotten laid with those odds.

Chippendales isn't the only venue you can take advantage of.  Women find themselves aroused after any number of exciting and sexually-stimulating displays.  I've had good reports following football games, NASCAR events, Ultimate Fighting Championship, and other brute displays of naked competition.  Rock concerts, as I've mentioned in the past, are particularly noteworthy for turning up the seat-heat in a woman.  The vibrations, the crowd, and the in-your-face sexuality of most male rock stars is more than enough to make her want to fuck someone . . . and that might as well be you.

Professional sports is another great place to find pre-horny women.  Everything from roller derby to professional football can give women the visceral excitement they need to keep the panties moist.  Witnessing a naked display of aggression and competition is hot-making for most women.

Another serious vein of wet panties is -- I shit you not -- the firing range.  An older friend of mine goes every Sunday morning, and after wasting $50 of 9mm ammunition he takes a break and susses out the possibilities.  Especially for the mid-30s crowd, Sundays seem to be a popular time for women to shoot, and he makes plenty of pick-ups there.  He's often said that the bigger the gun a woman fires, the easier time she'll be to get in bed.

Yet another good external cue is motorcycles or horses.  Many women still have a latent sexual association with horses left over from their little-girl My Little Pony phase.  Seeing a powerful animal, so graceful and beautiful, as well as the smell of horse, straw, and manure that accompanies them, is often enough to get a woman hyped up.  And my brother Lester once had a girlfriend with a motorcycle fetish -- not uncommon.  If they were driving down the road and a sport-bike whizzed by, her panties got wet just at the sound of the muffler.  If they got passed by a convoy of motorcycles, she would make him pull over and give him head.

Some dudes might feel threatened by the idea of their woman getting hot and bothered because of some 25 year old muscle-bound stud.  She should be getting hot and bothered over you, after all.  But the plain Red Pill fact is that women like to look at hunky guys gyrating their junk and sweating all over the place, yet the vast majority would never dream of hooking up with the dude in whose g-string they just stuffed $25 in ones.  Nor is it likely that the dancers are popping wood over the generally-rotund audience -- word on the street that many, if not most, of the dancers are Lambdas.  (Hell, if I looked like that, I'd probably be gay, too.  Women just don't know how to appreciate that much gym time on a man.  Gay dudes, on the other hand, can look at a guy that women find orgasm-inducing and wrinkle up their nose about how 'fat' he is.)

Romance novels are another horny-making device.  If your woman likes them, don't try to interfere . . . but pay close attention to her visible responses while she's reading, and if she starts to squirm and press her thighs together while she's reading, it's time to pounce.  And ten minutes with Christian Grey and his sex toy collection can work decidedly in your favor.  Indeed, if you see a woman reading 50 Shades of Grey openly, then consider her pre-primed and potentially even consciously looking for dick.

It's important, of course, to not come to rely on this kind of stimulation, should you be married or in a LTR.  Couples who regularly have to find their erotic inspiration outside of the bedroom are on the path to divorce, more often than not.  Going to Chippendales in Vegas and getting keyd up is one thing . . . stalking the local college ROTC so that she can find a good place to park while the young shirtless men can jog by five times a week is quite another.

In extreme cases it can lead to the cuckolding lifestyle, with the wife entering a Bull Alpha's harem while the mild-mannered Beta looks on, films his woman's antics with the "real man", and hopes like hell she'll still want to throw him a pity fuck afterward.  It's as bad --actually, probably a lot worse -- than being "addicted to porn" and requiring to view it before you can fuck your wife.  If she can only find satisfaction in the arms of a Bull, then your relationship has some issues.


Of course, if she's just lusting over a 25 year old muscular gigolo who's getting paid for the service, you don't have too much to worry about in terms of cheating.  You may, however, get the message that she'd like more Alpha in her diet if she's eager for such entertainments.  You may also want to come up with your own little dance routine, complete with props and banana hammock, with the caveat that it must be delivered with utter confidence or you'll probably just look fruity.

But if you're single, horny, and looking for an easy strike, go where the fish are.  If you're enterprising enough you'll ferret out where all the bachelorette parties go, what clubs have a ladies' night, etc.  Find the places where the horny women hang out, and maximize your potential for the evening.  If nothing else, it allows you to practice Game on a receptive audience, and gives you lots of experience in approach and confidence.

As far as my own Chippendales experience, you'll be interested to know that Mrs. Ironwood skipped it -- not because she doesn't enjoy rock-hard chiseled abs (they're a welcome change of pace, I imagine), but because she didn't want to get three-drinks-minimum drunk and horn-out in front of professional colleagues, nor did she want to witness her (mostly single and perpetually aroused) colleagues freak out over the idea of fresh cock.  It's not that she gets offended but . . . well, there are just some things you can't un-see.


So I entertained her myself, after the conference and dinner, back in our suite.  I won't mention the props or costumes, and I damn sure wasn't as hot as a Chippendale dancer, but the fact she got to do me without putting a wad of ones in my thong first -- and didn't have to worry about catching anything or getting rejected -- was worth it.  And I didn't even have to finish my routine -- I'm not the only one who gets a little impatient.

Sure, I felt objectified, cheap, and a little used afterward . . . but isn't that what Las Vegas is for?

Good luck fishing, fellas!













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