What’s to be enjoyed here?

My life told in 50 encounters.

Most of it I’ve been a total failure in understanding, in reading women. I took everything they said at face value. Result: a chain of dating desasters.

The tip of the iceberg is laid out here in painful detail. I got strong IOIs from each girl, at least, if not pussy on my face. I kissed many, laid in bed with a few, naked. Some of them were really hot. However, no single lay to be reported here.

I start chronologically but then by increasing order of pain—my all time #1 case of stupid blindness spans over more than 20 years anyway!

I hope you will be learning through these stories—my shit should of been useful for something. As a man, how to avoid shooting yourself in the foot, as a woman, why some guys you fancy just don’t take action despite your countless invites.

#48 And the Cat Walks Away (onto the Catwalk)

A few months pass by and it’s winter. I’m going on a two week ski holiday trip in Austria with many other young people around my age, 16.

With the girls #50 and #49 of the previous posts, I could still find half-assed excuses why I’m not to blame that I screwed it up like, “still a kid” or “naturally had other interests than girls and the real stuff with them, was just too naive, etc.”.

Now, every month that passes by, the margin for error narrows down. Sex is on the table with increasing frequency and bluntness, although it takes me another six months to lose my virginity (however, that experience doesn’t belong here by definition of the blog: it was clumsy, a bit embarrassing but not disastrous. I got cougared by a dance teacher from Africa).

I was very happy to “have become a man” back then but already sensed that I just landed a lucky shot in the dark (pun not intended ;).

I didn’t even tell Puntozenon about this case #48—my mistakes here were so titanic and obvious, there’s no need to analyse them deeper:

We enter a tour bus very early in the morning and I’m a bit shy and intimidated by all the new people and especially by the cool sporty guys that go on this tour the third or fourth time. So I sit near my two buddies and try to not expose myself too much. I don’t register any girls, specifically.

After a week I have made some new friends and overall warm up to the situation. The interesting and Nice Guy I am, I connect with other guys quickly, as usual. Dirk is one of them and part of the in-group, on the tour for the third time. He appears to be a Nice Guy too, maybe as an effect of his cheilognathoschisis (harelip) which has huge impact on his pronounciation.

Lateron it will turn out he really is very nice and friendly: he never shows any attempt to cockblock me when it comes to Daniela—his sister.

They probably have loving, undivorced parents, because Daniela is very down-to-earth and easy going, despite her outstanding beauty. Probably the reason why I initially am only a little bit nervous and talk to her naturally. She’s open and only after several interactions I notice that I “have hot ears”, as we say in German: I have a crush on her!

Needless to say, that realization makes me think and worry and I start acting uptight. She is soooo good looking, she’s out of my league. Every guy is after her, why should she take me? I’m not as good a skier as the locals, I’m not good enough for her! Is she my type anyway?

The BS in my head leads to inertia, a pattern I now realize I ran in other areas of my life too.

I also notice that I feel a surge of anger. I’m getting annoyed—at her! This happened more than three decades ago but the memory of this emotion is clear like a gill: I’m angry because she doesn’t come over, takes my hand and shows me she likes me.

Puntozenon would ask: why should she initiate? That’s your job as a man. He’s right and I believe I knew it back then but the feeling and my inner blockage was just there. It had to do with my parents and my expectation that they made up for something. Actually, I was hoping that my father would take my hand and show me how our world works. And that other world, too, the girls. He never did or, maybe, I didn’t see it.

So I don’t make the move but Daniela is still signaling interest. She’s patient with me. I instead firmly believe she has done something wrong, it’s her fault we’re not yet happy together.

I am a decent looking and entertaining young man and maybe to an extent larger than imagined, because at the end, Daniela is taking the initiative and talks to me, that she likes me and that we should go to where we’re alone.

This is far more than any guy can expect, even more so by the cutest girl around. Even the blind should see the occasion and appreciate its beauty. Well, not me.

My stupid ego sees an opportunity, yes, but not for a happy end but for —revenge! Too late, honey, you should’ve done that right in the beginning, now I’m upset. Here, take this, I punish you hard now and reject your approach. Try again!

She does not. I don’t know what’s going on in her head. All I see is that she’s looking sad and moving away. Later I see her crying, huddled on the warm masonry heater, like a hurt cat licking her wounds.

That’s also the moment when even me dickhead realizes his mistake. I see the absurdity of the situation and of my behavior, I’m feeling guilty, embarrassed and depressed.

Nothing worth reporting happens after that incident. Well, not quite true: back home in school, in my daily routine, I cannot stop thinking about her. It might be retroactive idealization of her and her indicators of interest. Anyway, my parents do not doublecheck why I’m pushing them to register me for the next season’s ski event, ten months ahead.

The whole year I can’t wait to go on the ski trip and see her again. How will she look like, as beautiful as last time? Will she remember my fuckup? Will I be given a second chance?

The day my dad has to drive me to the bus departure, noticeably not too amused about getting up at 5am, I am wake an hour before the clock, full of energy, in anticipated joy and expectation. I wouldn’t repeat my past mistakes for sure, I would be super nice to her and talking to her as soon as I see her, I even have wrapped a small gift.

When we reach the parking lot, it’s still dark and the bus surrounded by a crowd of kids and parents. But I keep my cool, they will call out every person on the booking list. So I’d even know in which row she sits and already daydream about walking over to her in front of everyone and saying hello.

When the 38th name is called out, my raising fear turns into certainty: she’s not on the trip!

But her brother is and at the first possible break I head over to him and shake hands. As a surprise to me, he’s still very friendly.

With a subtle but perceivable tone of satisfaction he informs me that his sister couldn’t make it because she now uses all of her free time to work as a model. She’s just now having a gig in Milan.

I am left a bit surprised because I do recall her as a nice, shy, but open girl. Aren’t models bitchy and arrogant? Well, how could I know? The next ones I meet in person are only #39 and #36 of this blog but don’t await a story of glory.

And needless to say, I never see Daniela again.

#49 When Alain Delon screwed it up with Sharon Stone

This is my second dating desaster, technically—four years after #50 and of course years before I would knowingly “have a date”. However, according to my definition for the stories that I’m posting here it was another dating desaster: sex was on the table but I was I too blind to make it happen (or too blinded or scared by the opportunity).

I was 15 and a half years old back then and my main interest were the home computer and comic books. My parents went on a camping holiday to a lake in southern Italy with three other befriended families and their kids of different ages. In the seventies, mom and dad were kind of hippies and one father there was the founder and owner of a small but legendary indie rock music club, a funny guy with a super relaxed attitude.

The camping area was in walking distance to the lake and we passed the days on the beach while dinner was taken altogether on a very long table with loads of food, booze, cigarettes and board or card games. My parents were still a couple and I remember it as one of the happiest holidays of my life.

Only the story that follows left me utterly confused and frustrated at the end.

I got used to that feeling. It stayed and grew over decades, whenever I dealt with girls. Only quite recently that veil of ignorance was lifted and eventually taken away by my friend Puntozenon.

Now, the reason for that early confusion was blonde, taller than me, had a normal slim female figure and must of been around 20 years old. I forgot her name, let’s call her Michaela.

One hot, dry afternoon under the Italian sun we walk back from the lake, Michaela, me and club owner’s daughter who is about my age. We do small talk, I’m thinking about the muesli I plan to eat and my comic book when Michaela starts to banter and the other girl laughing, then

Daniel, tell me, do you have a girlfriend?

I’m not prepared at all for such a question and not even trying to make up a story—no clue about DHVing and preselection yet. I openly admit that I don’t have one. She continues

Oh, that’s interesting. Why not?

I’m of course even more dumbfounded now and just mumble some words, no idea.

Well you know, you should have one. You’re smart and handy, to me you look like the young Alain Delon.

I do not know who that guy was but I do have an itchy feeling somewhere. I sense that something’s going on here. Not least because the other girl, not as attractive as Michaela, is giggling and looking away. When we reach the tents and tables in front of them, I notice that she disappeared. Turning around I see her heading back to the lake. Girls know all the time. I don’t care, I’m hungry and already building my super duper muesli.

I’m also happy that I’m off the spot and can distract the situation by fumbling in my parents’ camper’s kitchen box. I’m still ruminating the pros and cons and the why she’s recommending me to get a gf.

Then we sit at the camping table in the shadow, me reading and eating for some minutes when she goes to her tent and comes back shortly after.

Do you mind?

She’s sitting very laid back in the camping chair opposite me and I need to have a second look to understand her question: she’s fumbling near her stomach and now I’m seeing that with a tweezer she’s plucking her pubic hair above the bikini panties which she has lowered slightly.

Er… Me? Er… no

I hear myself saying. No clue, no meta reading, everything at face value. But some more itching down there.

Silence and me looking down into my comic magazine.

I’m done with my food, looking at her. She decides we should go back to the lake and join the others. “Just wanting to change her dress”, she goes into her tent and takes some time while I continue reading my comic mag. Then she calls me for some reason, I approach the tent and talk to her from the outside.

I don’t understand you, come in for a second.

With today’s knowledge I must say, she had her shit together. In the tent, she’s acting that she needs to change her wet bikini and take the other one—while reaching over, she accidentally flashes her sanctuary towards me. Now, it’s not itching any more, I have an outright boner.

Poor girl: she does everything right and pulls off a very smooth deduction that should of worked for sure, despite my younger age and inexperience. Sharon Stone would rise to a global sex symbol a decade later with the same move. However, my self-esteem issues, my core belief of not being worth to enjoy the gift, lead to me doing—nothing.

And as a self-protection, I probably erase any memory of this awkward situation. Only thing I recall is that we walk back to the lake, in silence, and my head raging, trying to process what happened. I feel some hunch that I didn’t take a huge opportunity and that I would have needed to initiate at least that very last, tiny step.

Michaela must be very frustrated but doesn’t say anything. A day later, my mind invents a weird strategy to turn the story around: a tease. While she’s taking a shower, I’m pushing her cotton flip-flops underneath the wooden door so that they get wet. Top player move, isn’t it?

Of course, that was it, everything going south from thereon. However, I still remember that I was surprised back then that she got so pissed by my joke with her flip-flops, didn’t understand her behaviour, thought it an obvious overreaction. This cluelessness repeated countless times as did the attempts of women trying to seduce me. I’m just warming up.

#50 Christine: My Very First Shit Test

This is one of the earliest memories I have regarding flirting and male-female social dynamics. It was in junior high / middle school and I must of been fourteen years old.

One day, our teacher introduced a new member of class: Christine’s family had recently moved to the area due to her dad’s job. Originally, they came from the southern region of our country which was obvious by her accent.

She had very dark brown hair and a bit of a strange hair style, different from all the other girls. Not sure but I believe it was what is called a pageboy hairstyle. Which would of made sense, as she overall had some masculine traits, she was not as thin as the other girls but also not fat, maybe sturdy is the right word here. She was two years older than us and noteably more years ahead in her sexual development. What really stood out were her atomic tits (nooo, pun not intended, I swear!).

And this was around the same time when I had seen my first porn mag and the first nude DD tits on paper. Many readers won’t know those times any more: there was no youporn, no porn site with tagged films where you’d find any combination of flavor in a second. Back then we guys traded used paper magazins in shady corners of the schoolyard and were superexcited on our way home about the treasure in our satchel. The women in these mags were double our age, we’re not shaved and no one had had a boob job done. It was an all raw natural meat show.

A few days after Christine being introduced by the teacher and making some female friends, I happened to walk besides her in the staircase during the break so we talked a bit. She opened me and was very interested, asked me a lot of questions which came in quite handy as I was shy and a bit intimidated by her—initial AA back then.

That was another aspect of her masculine appearance—which I am able to categorize correctly today: Christine was initiating and leading all the time. And I was one of her targets—or maybe the only one? Remember, this was decades before Tinder was invented and given our young age, so it seems safe to assume she wasn’t a slut back then, with her 15 or so years.

In any case, I sit down at my place and when I open the exercise book, I find a folded piece of paper:

Hey Danny, you are my boyfriend on probation

Unfortunately, the poetic beauty of her letter gets a bit lost by the translation into English. In my mother tongue German, it was

Hey Danny, ich geh mit dir auf Probe

“Miteinander gehen” is a special term when two teenagers court each other which, translated word by word, is “to walk together”, and typically, the boy asks the girl Do you want to go with me? This is not asking her out for a date but kind of the early and sandbox version of Do you want to marry me?, him asking for being a couple right away and often happening even before the first kiss, never mind the first sex.

Now, you may ask why I’m so sure that this could of been my first notch? Well, not only did she initiate and pass me the small letter but also read it’s content: she actually didn’t ask if I wanted to be her boyfriend (as we guys would of done it in a situation vice versa), she just stated her decision and my new status.
Good game actually, assuming the sale and leading—just from the wrong person involved. I was way too shy and insecure to pull that off myself.
I remember that she wasn’t held back by my inertia. As you can imagine, I didn’t send a small folded confirmation note back, I even tried to avoid contact altogether. She just initiated the next step and—invited me to her place.
Her parents’ row house was a little outside my city but in easy reach for me on my bike. I had done triple the distance to visit my computer buddy with whom I programmed our version of Moon Patrol on our home computer. However this time, I asked my dad to drive me over. Probably my subconscious called for backup and some guidance. I would have needed a coach like Puntozenon but the invention of Game, PUA and TRP was still more than twenty years ahead.
My dad dropped me a crossing away, I didn’t want her to see him and also his car then rang the bell with my heart beating heavily; her parents were nice, her mom’s coffee with cake delicious and I liked her girly room. I still would find the way to their house today I believe. What I don’t recall is, what we did the hours after the coffee, when left alone. Probably she tried to make things happen but I chickened out or froze completely. However, my mind protects me from that embarrassment and gets foggy each time I dig my memories.
The only thing I know for sure, you guessed it: there was no follow-up meeting and not that she fired me expressively but I did not survive the probation period.

What did I learn from this? The headline of this post came out quite spontaneously when I wrote the first draft, years ago, after I got into PUA and its lingo for the first time. I left it that way, as a kind of documentation. However, today, end of 2020 and after hours of coaching by Puntozenon, I know that this wasn’t a shit test. Those are thrown when the girl feels some initial interest in you but has some doubts whether you are the type of man she wants to have sexual intercourse with (the end goal and main question in all flirt and dating setups). But Christine had her mind made up already and the only thing she threw at me was premature praise. Or in other words, pussy on your face.