I discovered “game” as a freshman in college during the fall of 2008. Up to that point in my life I had slept with exactly one girl, my high school sweetheart. I was as “blue pill” as they come.
A buddy of mine who was in the Air Force sent me a PDF of Neil Strauss’s The Game. After reading that, it felt as if my eyes had been opened. I stumbled upon Roosh’s blog shortly thereafter. Things really took off when I started reading Roissy in the spring of 2009. As hard as it was to believe, it was all true: the worse you treat them, the harder they fight for you.
I quickly learned that putting game into practice was much harder than reading about the theory. I failed to fuck a sexy Italian girl my freshman year because, despite the fact that she was into me, I got drunk at a frat party and hugged her a little too eagerly. It was as if a switch flipped in her brain. She barely talked to after that. While I was home over Christmas break, I attempted “negging” a girl about her fake Uggs, only to have her punch me.
My first taste of success in applying game principles came the following spring, when I latched onto a blonde sorority girl and went absolutely Machiavellian on her ass. Things really heated up when she caught me making out with her roommate. Ultimately, the relationship crashed and burned when she discovered I was fucking a redheaded callipygian goddess on the side. No sweat. I rambled on.
My game truly began to blossom when I started dating a model during my senior year. I became (or at least pretended to be) a full-blown sociopath. I would ignore her for days on end. I stayed out every weekend getting wasted and cheating on her at every possible opportunity, often with girls who were nowhere near as good-looking, just for the sake of cheating. The whole time, she texted me nonstop with sweet nothings, begged me to let her come over and fuck her, and routinely did errands for me. I was getting a taste of the good life.
By no means am I suggesting that I’m some apex alpha bro with a 400 lb. bench and a multimillion-dollar business empire who flies around the world on a private jet and regularly screws Victoria’s Secret models. I have a long way to go before I would call myself a master seducer. Still, game principles have become so engrained in me that they almost feel natural. The more natural it becomes, the better I seem to do with women. . . .
The problem is that I’m starting to hate love. The one who loves the least controls the direction of the relationship. It’s always a race to the bottom. You have to prove that you give less of a shit than she does, so some other alpha boogeyman doesn’t come swoop her away. “If she doesn’t text me back for three hours, I won’t text her back for four!” When she distances herself, you distance yourself further. It works, and works well—for a while. But ultimately you end up resenting the girl you just wanted to love in the first place. I’m tired of being the inveterate cad who stays drunk and fucks any and every girl I can get my hands on, just so I can keep the one I want in the first place. It’s a sick game, and I’m tired of playing.
But what other options do I have?
Nick Troyer 