Miss 50: 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: Miss 50’s family had recently moved to the area following her dad’s job. Originally, they came from Bavaria which was obvious by her accent.

She had shiny black hair and a bit of a strange hair style, different from all the other girls. Not sure but I believe it’s called a pageboy hairstyle. Which would of made sense, as she overall had some masculine traits. She hadn’t the figure of the other girls but also was 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 pre internet times any more: 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, not shaved and no one had a boob job done. It was an all raw natural meat show.

A few days after Miss 50 had been introduced by the teacher and made some female friends, I happen to walk besides her in the staircase during the break. She opens me, we’re chatting a bit. She’s quite interested, asks me a lot of questions which came in quite handy as I am 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: she 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’m sitting down at my desk and when I open the exercise book, I find a folded piece of paper:

Hey Olli, 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 is

Hey Olli, 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”. 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 its content: she actually didn’t ask if I wanted to be her boyfriend (as we guys would of done 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. What did she do? 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 the 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 drops me a crossing away—I don’t want her to see him nor his car. I ring the bell with my heart beating heavily; her parents are nice, her mom’s coffee with cake is delicious and I like Miss 50’s 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:

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 2018 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 Miss 50 had her mind made up already and the only thing she threw at me was kind of premature praise. Or in more specific lingo, pussy on your face.

Miss 49: When Alain Delon screwed it up with Sharon Stone

This is my second dating desaster, technically—four years after Miss 50 and 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 too blind to make it happen (or too scared by the opportunity).

I was 15 and a half years old back then and my main interest were still my 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, my mom and dad were kind of hippies and one other 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. 

And I got used to that feeling—whenever I dealt with girls.

It stayed and grew over decades. Only quite recently that veil of ignorance was lifted and eventually taken away by my—former fellow in misery? Coach? Friend? Anyway, legendary 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. Miss 49.

One hot, dry afternoon under the Italian sun we walk back from the lake: Miss 49, 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 is but I do have an itchy feeling down there. I sense that something’s going on here. Not least because the club owner’s daughter is giggling and looking away. When we reach the tents with the tables in front, I notice that she disappeared, 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 of the situation, what I should of said and the why she’s recommending me to get a gf.

Then Miss 49 and I sit at the camping table in the shadow alone. I’m 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. Some heavier itching down there.

Silence. Me looking down into my comic magazine.

I’m done with my food, looking at her. She tells me we should go back to the lake and join the others.

Just going to change my dress

and off she goes into her tent and takes some time while I continue reading my comic mag. Then she calls my name, if I could come over, I don’t know why but 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 seduction that should of worked for sure, despite my younger age and inexperience. Well, it worked, obviously. 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, leads 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.

Miss 49 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! Well, not one of a smooth player but a utterly childish one: While she’s taking a shower, I’m pushing her cotton flip-flops underneath the wooden door so that they get wet. Top move, innit?

Of course, that was it, everything going south from there on. 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 unjustified overreaction. This cluelessness repeated countless times in the following decades as did the attempts of women trying to seduce me.

I’m just warming up.

PS: A friend of mine commented by email

I now have a crush on Miss 49! Great, everything done right. Awesome. Summer haze at its finest while camping. In a bikini.

While drafting my reply to Johan, this PS evolved:

I found out the name and phone number of Miss 49 about 20 (!) years after that vacation. One mildly cold winter evening I met her in a bar in the town where we both lived at the time.

It was a turn-off in more ways than one: we were both (she especially) two decades older and of course there was no summer haze to be seen anywhere, just November fog (at least that’s what my memory creates as a very vivid image. The bar had been around for a long time, designed in the style of the 80s and they had kept it going. When I was of going-away age, we saw it as more for “the older ones”, probably students and young professionals back then. So, the location suited our meeting perfectly).

More importantly, she had a completely different recollection of our story: allegedly she had had a crush on the DJ from Club Owner, who also had joined that trip to Italy. The DJ was her age or older, more mature. She didn’t remember my version.

The whole encounter was a pointless idea in many ways: I wanted to meet her again to close this loose end FOR ME but without being exactly aware of it nor having a clear outcome in mind.

And I didn’t offer her anything. I didn’t turn the tables and tried to seduce HER, which would have been a nice circular argument, also for this story. And I’m sure it wasn’t due to lack of mutual attraction back then, but just my continued blindness, or aimlessness.

So from her point of view, it was a waste of time and she must of been wondering all evening “what the f*ck does this guy want?”

Everything is either sexual, or financial.

This statement was just coming to my mind now which actually is referring to NYC – where my cosmopolitan, literary friend Johan received this lesson from his then boss, in the back office of that art gallery he worked in. Johan is not his real name but this one fits him for various reasons, e.g. he looks like the perfect Stockholm Stureplan banker, tall, slim, always perfectly groomed, conservative but fashionable, more the quiet observer than the outgoing salesman I am sometimes. We met at uni and we always shared a passion for i.a. art, literature, and printed matters.

But I’m disgressing. Let me come to my conclusion regarding sex and money, after this story, after all the years:

It’s just all in your head.

Miss 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 Miss 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 South African dance teacher. She knew how to handle).

I was very happy to “have become a man” back then but already sensed that I just landed a lucky shot in the dark (noooooo, pun totally random, I swear).

I didn’t even tell Puntozenon yet about Miss 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 Miss 48—his sister.

They probably have loving, undivorced parents, because she 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 blocking was just there. It had to do with my parents and my expectation that they would make 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. For Puntozenon it is clear: like most fathers in the post war times in the west, mine didn’t fulfill his role as the father archetype. Yes, he is my biological father but he didn’t behave as such. He behaved like my elder brother but not only that: he was also jealous and envied me, according to my mother. 

So I don’t make the move but Miss 48 is still signalling 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, she 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 the opportunity, yes. Although not for an happy ending 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 doesn’t. 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 the fuck-up. 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 are suprised that I’m pushing them to register me already 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 scene? Will I be given a second chance?

The long awaited 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 Miss 38 and 37 of this blog but don’t await a story of glory.

And needless to say, I never see Miss 48 again.

Miss 47: A quickie that wasn’t

No, I didn’t have an SDL, quick sex, at age 16.

But could (and should) have had.

The story is simple and short. It was in the 11th year of school (of 13 back then in Germany) and I had recently joined this new school which specialized in only the three last classes leading to the A levels/high-school diploma. So it was kind of a melting pot for people from all over the city which lead to a great atmosphere: most people didn’t know anyone and there was no rigid class system but you could choose your courses freely and got freshly mixed together every half year. It was one huge speed dating venue, decades before the invention of Tinder.

I was happy to have left my old dusty oldschool school and excited about all the new possibilities.

Many pupils in the new school were class repeaters in other schools and as I started schooling age 5 and never repeated a class, I was two to three years younger than most of the crowd.

Actually my whole life I had been the youngest in class. And, during the middle school years, also shorter than even some girls. That of course curbed my self-esteem. But it also made me ambitious, I compensated by reading and learning a lot. In addition, I was genetically lucky, told to be handsome, and I knew how to dress.

Now, if you are the type of reader I expect, you’ll prolly say: well, that’s the typical bio and character traits of a PUA.

Well, yes but no (why’s that italic? you as the attentive reader thought, didn’t you? It’s another famous quote by HIM).

We’ll get there but first let’s finish the quicky.

Miss 47 sat in one of my courses. I knew she had hung out with some of our school’s bad boys. She was three years older than me. It’s a lot when you’re 16. I wasn’t paying much attention but today am sure she gave me the eyes already but I was—too blind to see it.

Or, my Frame was so off that I could not even perceive the IOI—HE would say. The grandmaster of Frame theory (and practice)—Puntozenon. He helped me a lot to… heal myself? Calling him a healer doesn’t sound appropriate, frame and grammar nazi fits him better. He’s like a strict sports coach however, operating through very precise language.

Anyway, one evening after a school event it happened that I walked in the same direction as Miss 47 so she caught up some meters and started chatting. It must of been a vivid conversation, as my intention was totally innocent but both of us were interested in the topics. There was no meta level thinking in my head about what to say next or how to kiss her. Like a blind man not able to see the beauty in front of him.

She wasn’t a pretty girl in the strictest sense but her energy level, the warmth she exuded and the obvious character maturity were notable. Her company just felt good.

After a while—I had lost the sense of time and even the direction—she touched my arm as to slow me down.

This is where I live

It was an 8-storey building, her parents working class, obviously. I don’t recall exactly but think she lived with her single mum and a brother or a sister.

Do you want to come up for something to drink?

My heart started pounding. All of a sudden I woke up: that should’ve been my line.

While I was stuttering words, not knowing what to say (and much less what I wanted) she even got more friendly and bubbly and… seductive. A classic.

My little friend down there did know what he wanted but I was all in my head where a lot of dust had been stirred up, I couldn’t see clear.

But Miss 47 didn’t give up yet.

Do you have a girlfriend?

I heard her say which further heightened my stress level because I was searching for some circumvention or a convincing lie as I didn’t want to tell the truth.

No

came out of my mouth together with justifications, explanations and other BS.

But why not? You’re intelligent, sporty and good looking and …

She continued with her pro pickup which was totally counterproductive. I mean, it was a totally male way of leading and actually the very best approach to open me up—in theory.

However, a bad Frame can’t be easily changed from the outside. Neither esasily from the inside but, only from the inside. It has to come from within you, from your wants, it is a choice you make; Puntozenon in my head.

After a few minutes she gave up and I went my way. I was grateful to Miss 47 already back then, I remember. I knew she meant well, it was flattering and charming but the more she tried the more frustrated I became. I got angry with myself and with the world but there was nothing to do, I was stuck in my Inner Antigame.

On my way home and the next day, the movie of the sex we would have had, what she would have taught me, played in a loop in my head.

Didn’t feel like a quickie, more like an allnighter.

Miss 46: Ugly

Luckily, for the end result, it doesn’t really matter whether you’re good looking or not, as a man. It just makes the path shorter.

Or steeper and more painful—when you don’t know why your dates end in desasters, despite not being ugly nor shy. Then the only thing you bang is your head against the wall.

Or, against The Walls, as Puntozenon might remark, as opposed to the Taking The Openings which women and life in general offer you all the time, however most guys don’t see them and even less act upon them.

In this story, I got cougared again. Is this a pattern already? Dunno, sure thing it didn’t really help me. And wasn’t the last time.

The new, white 7.5 tonner parked in front of my windows to the yard. The sun came out behind clouds and the room I spent my childhood in suddenly got lit like a film set. Not sure what it meant: anticipating the bright side of this new life stage or putting me in the spotlight?

Both, I hear Puntozenon saying. The places where you belong to and which you ought to pursue as a man. And stop that I Received a Sign BS, you’re not a girl.

The story of Miss 46 took place a few months after that day my father had moved out of home. He never filled the role of the strong, leading dad, the father archetype I craved for so much. When he left, I felt sad and paralyzed but at least the quarrels between my parents ended. At least I thought so. They divorced four years later and it was a mudslinging with lawyers, court and files.

But all of that also lead to a new life for my mother and especially me, spending more time in adult circles, with new horizons and exciting encounters.

It was the end of the 80s, that innocent decade of aberration in taste; through some acquaintences of my mother, I found myself in the art scene of Zurich, Switzerland. One guy was the manager of a famous artist and also ran several businesses, one of them the famous Ugly Club. It was the Swiss answer to NYC’s Studio 54.

The night was “closed society”, the owner threw an invite only birthday party for one of his key employees, she turned 40. That old beautiful villa was crammed full of crazy party people and beautiful girls.

I was there with a bunch of my mother’s friends and, yes, my mother, too. She was a former hippie, a child of the 1968ies and so was her educational style. Everyone found it cool that she just brought her son there, including the club owner. Well, except me: I felt super nervous and a bit ashamed, a mummy’s boy and actually, I can acknowledge today, I was.

Far away of his dictum “In a venue, behave as you own the club. Girls will notice and flock on you, get themselves close to you, then you just need to say hi. Why are guys running after girls in the street when Night Game is so easy and efficient?” Even Mr. K describes in his books that sometimes he went to clubs with Jimmy and the lads, they ‘just hung out at the bar, were loud and had fun’—it was a pussy magnet.

True, the Ugly club owner had them all and also the attractive birthday girl was his ex. I found him cool but also weird. He was clearly the boss but thin, almost skinny, not the muscular or massive guy you’d expect, his body language even was somehow female. I think the word back then, in the 80s, was androgyne.

Gay, Puntozenon would comment in his unique style of succinctness.

The basement of the former residence of an industrial magnate had been transformed into a dancefloor, the ground floor was a spatious bar and the first a kind of lounge. The owner had an apartment in the uppest floor, under the roof—obviously he made a living out of good logistics.

So I’m wandering around alone, observing the different rooms, the styles and the people. Exactly what you should not do—it signals insecurity, social inability and passivity, all unattractive traits girls smell a mile away. Everything seems a bit weird and over the top to me. Then some three staff pass by carrying a rolled carpet, down to the dancefloor, not ready for the party yet? Whatever.

I had seen Miss 46 before. High energy, bubbly, with the body of a twenty something gym rat, the hair style of Kim Wilde and the face of, well, a 46 years old—the long years of working in hospitality, after hour parties and probably loads of sex, drugs & rock’n’roll had taken a toll. But she wasn’t ugly, at all, Still, I would do her without hesitation.

I’m back in the basement and there’s a dance show going on on the dance floor. We’re sitting around a table in the first row. One of the gogo girls is a young brunette and really my type, she knows how to move her body, smiling, making the dance look easy and fun. She’s locking eyes once, twice and I’m having a boner.

Now arabic music is being played, clothes come down and two girls do belly dancing. Two others are now dancing topless, also my brunette. She’s obviously my age, 19 or 20, her tits are like apples making fun of gravity. A guy acting as a magician now let’s two of the male dancers pick up the carpet which lies in the middle of the dance floor. They do some more moves, unroll it and—Miss 46 drops out and starts performing dance moves herself. A pro. Very smooth. Like a cougar. She wears a sequin bikini, showing of a flawless petite trained body. Anything but ugly.

After the show, she joins our table and it turns out that also the rest of dance crew is actually stuff of the club. The brunette now serves and passes our table several times. I don’t speak with, am rather daydreaming of her, wanting the eye lock again, that feeling. New people are joining our table now, others leave to go dancing. I’m realizing the brunette feeling won’t come again, she won’t be that nice to me any more, she’s running around, stressed, the bubble burst. I’m feeling frustrated, betrayed, angry.

Hey, Oliver, do you enjoy the evening so far?

Miss 46. Through all the reshuffling, she ends up sitting besides me at the round table, I realize now.

What? Er… yes… yes, yes, nice party… and happy birthday to you!

She has a beaming smile in her face and moves closer, leaning in to talk more. I smell her scent, fresh and feminine. How does she do that, after that dance performance and the time rolled within the carpet? Her voice is the opposite, smoky, husky, speaking of experience.

Oh, thank you, niiice. Here, come, let’s toast my birthday, chin chin…

pulling two glasses of Champagne from the middle of the table, handing me one. We clink, she’s looking me in the eyes and my mind races. The tits of brunette, now hidden under her normal waitress dress are staying on my mind. Forbidden fruits that still lure me. But also she looks like a normal girl, a good girl, a girlfriend. I feel a sad yearning, what is this… did I fall in love?

…don’t you think?

Her hand very subtly touching my knee under the table pops my bubble, the loud music comes back.

… yes…

I didn’t listen so I just mumble something but now she has my full attention as I realize what’s going on.

… Olli, have you tried coke?

I’m too overwhelmed to even think about the right or good answer

Er… no

Would you like try come with me and try? Not here, I have the key for the apartment…

The perfection seduction, a really intruiging offer, a wet dream but the wrong time. At what point in my life would I have had the cool to take it?

I’m not beating myself on this one, after all me the late bloomer was just too innocent, craved love from a girl and not sex from a woman, wanted romance not adventure.

And who knows what would have happened during that night, everyone drunk and on coke? Maybe club owner would have shown up—I’m stopping here but you’ll be agreeing that for me, it could have become a rather ugly experience.

Miss 45: I wouldn’t kick her out of bed…

…but, you guessed it, I did.

We had passed some time together in my room and ended up sitting on my bed (literally, on my „Bettkante“, for my German speaking readers).

It was my old children’s room and I wasn’t prepared at all for girls’ visits so there was just my school desk, a second desk with my ZX81 computer which used a tube television as monitor and a book shelf. No sofa or armchairs, no need—minimalistic efficiency. I heard that some Daygamers also refuse to have a sofa, for the very same reason, but not sure if this is true.

I don’t recall everything but in hindsight it must of been that she had made the visit at my place happen, or at my mother’s house, to be precise. Probably under the pretext to get some math tutoring (which did I give, however only to my buddies).

Speaking strictly, her story shouldn’t be told here. Not because of morale considerations, no, but my case with her wasn’t one of blindness, or not only, because she even verbalized what she wanted

Can’t I stay here overnight?

We met in high school, both of us were new like most folks in our class. I remember she was a year or two older than me but this could also be an interpretation and manipulation of my mind, as she was confident, self-assured in a very charming way. She also didn‘t give a f*ck about what others thought about her, she seemed to trust life and that everthing’s good. Must have had a loving father.

She had a somewhat pretty face, light brown curly hair, a very bubbly character and shining eyes full of excitement. To really do her justice, I’d like to go more into details: her winning charme stemmed from the mixture of boyish-cheeky character and some clumsy-innocent traits she showed, the way she said certain things but also some body movements. She was over 1.70 m tall but her curious, eager for life and light-hearted demeanor came across as almost childish in contrast.

And then, she had a nice body, in between normal and sturdy, so today for sure she has to pay attention to her weight. But… last but not least, well… really massive, round, and firm breasts.

Needless to say, I’ve never seen or touched those treasures. But as a man you get an exact feel for how they are just by observing how they deform her t-shirt, their interaction with gravity and that smaller or bigger tip of her cleavage. I’m now recalling that she even pressed them against me „accidentically“—my very first time I got gamed by a girl applying tit kino*.

*That actually is my encyclopaedic contribution to the craft; until now I thought it first happened to me with Miss 34 but all the sweet memories bubble up one day (or are made up by idealizing the past, who knows), as far as they are away.

Dafuc! I can’t really say why I didn’t let her and enjoyed it myself.

Either I was still in love with my first high school crush, the super blonde, from the same school, who is not on this list because we eventually came together and had some three happy months of boyfriend-girlfriend before I screwed it up again towards the end;

Or I was just intimidated by her initiative; However, all her behaviour was always feminine and seductive. She’s not to blame for anything and I can’t even claim blindness.

PS: while reading this post again I remember that it was just a while before my rejection of Miss 45 that my dad had told me—during my initial attempts to “get” super blondie above—that I shouldn’t worry, “she’s out of your league anyway” which is when I created or strengthened my life story “I’m not good enough”. I worked hard to prove it over and over again to close the feedback loop, despite being a negative one; an open feedback loop is much more of a threat, it causes massive cognitive dissonance and can’t be borne by our minds, as Puntozenon explained.

So the poor girl really got beta widowed, if this is a thing. My second encyclopaedic contribution.