Why Game Matters: RPD’s Origin Story.

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In the question of whether game or looks matter–and to what degree–I am perhaps the perfect test case.

Because while I’m tall with a muscular build (though, like many big guys who like to eat, prone to getting chubby) and reasonably handsome, I was never attractive and/or lucky enough growing up that getting pussy was easy.

For those are the two most realistic roads a young man might find himself on in terms of regular sex in high school or college–especially high school. Let’s face it: when you’re in high school, there are basically two ways most guys lose their virginity…

  1. Some chick–maybe a neighbor or friend, maybe a drunk chick at a party–decides she’s going to fuck you and makes it unbelievably easy for you to do so, because she’s the aggressor. Spread teenage pussy? Yes please. And who are they more likely to choose for this endeavor? A: Guys who are really good looking. And then, having developed a reputation (women talk, and HS chicks talk 9x), the guy can have himself quite a run with other chicks if he has the wherewithal to apply himself.
  2. The more traditional route of having a steady girlfriend, and after a year or two, having paid your dues like a dutiful pack animal, she rewards you with starfish sex after Homecoming or Prom or something like that, only to shortly thereafter fuck some Chad who’s several years older, or backpack through Europe or Central America the following summer…and we all know what happens then.

There’s a third path of course: the rare true natural, who pushes hard for sex early in life, and somehow–probably because he has a father or older brother as an example–knows how to seduce and absolutely slays.

But that guy is now pumping gas somewhere in Kansas or died from a meth overdose or is living a fat, happy, sexless life married to one of the chicks he managed to impregnate, several kids now in high school themselves. Point is, whatever he’s doing, he’s NOT now reading a blog about pick up and game.

I fall into the fourth category of the high school experience for boys: not getting laid at all. I had some girlfriends, went to some dances, but never managed to pop my cherry. The closest I got was coming in my pants while grinding my date as a sophomore during Winter Formal.

Indeed, I didn’t lose my virginity until the summer after high school, which according to some, makes me a lifetime spiritual incel.

To my credit, the lay was pretty fucking epic: in a hot tub at a huge party with a solid HB 8, best friends watching from a dark balcony above, though I didn’t know it at the time. Now to be fair, I was probably at least the 20th dick she’d drained (she was not a particularly chaste young lass), whereas she was my first–and it would be for a hell of a lot longer than it should have been before I would get another.

Actually, before we continue, I should issue this warning: what you are about to read is cringeworthy. It has been embarrassing for me to write, let alone publish. But it seems to me a lot of guys have had similar experiences, and regardless, if the pathetic loser I was with chicks early on can become the player I am today, there is hope for anyone–at least anyone who’s willing to put in the work.

Anyway, college should have been awesome. I was in good shape (played college baseball), joined a fraternity, was funny and popular and outgoing…but I was also a huge fucking pussy who had absolutely no idea what he was doing with chicks. Looking back now, there were at least three girls in my dorm alone who wanted to fuck me–and several others in the greek system–but I managed to do nothing about any of those lovely young things, partially because I was being too picky, but mostly because I had no idea how to escalate.

Or really any idea at all about how girls work.

This was made quite clear to me sophomore year. I’d finally managed to get a girlfriend–a hot asian cheerleader: petite, fun, smart…she’s probably married now to some thick necked baller with seven children. In any case, after about a month of dating and hooking up and making out and handjobs and blowjobs and fingering, but never sex–we had a fight.

Like any normal 19-year-old boy, I wanted to stick my dick in her and had made this clear through my actions if not words, but at the Halloween party that year she asked me if I’d still want to date her if we never had sex. Like: ever. Massive shit test. But can you guess how I answered?


I told her that if we were never going to have sex, we shouldn’t date, because that should be a part of any romantic relationship. At least eventually. Like, who’s ever heard of a husband and wife who didn’t have sex with each other?

A perfectly reasonable and logical answer. Because everything the world had taught me said you could communicate with women like rational adults, because women were rational adults–any other view was obviously some form of barbaric misogyny.


And that was the end of things. I couldn’t even get over my own ego to just “apologize” and get back together, because I took her at her word that we were never going to have sex. Knowing what I know now, I realize if I’d simply said, “of course,” I probably would have gotten laid that same night, but alas my friends, I was a dumb kid WHO HAD NO GAME.


Let’s stop here for the sake of the argument about whether game or looks matter more, because to this point in my young life, if I’d had some game, I would’ve had at least five notches, instead of one.

That’s a big fucking difference at 20.

Game 5; Looks 0. Yes: the looks earned me the opportunities…but as any good salesman can tell you, closing the deal is always the hard part.

And for those who say, “well, you just weren’t good looking enough–if you were better looking you would have gotten the lays,” I have one response:

Like, it’s kind of amazing to me that anyone in this community thinks this is true–that women just auto-spread for guys who are really good looking. That might be the most insane thing I’ve ever heard in my life, and it makes me doubt the credibility of anyone who says or believes it.

I mean, of course chicks like fucking hot guys–but if you’re an HB 8, or hell even a 7, it’s not a question of whether she can fuck a hot guy. She can. Any day. Anytime. It’s a question of whether she wants to. And on any date, she’s going be in the process of deciding if she wants to–game moves the needle in your favor. As Tom Torero says, looks are an opener. But if you’re a chode on the date, she’s going to walk, no matter how good looking you are.

Again, my experience is the perfect example. In every case in my first two years of college, the girls I missed on clearly thought I was good looking enough to fuck–I just didn’t have the game to fuck them.

Not sure how many girls read this blog, but I know for a fact that a lot of women–probably most–have had this same experience in reverse, especially with guys they dated in high school or college.

The attraction was there.

They wanted the guy to fuck them.

But he was too much of a pussy to escalate, or he didn’t pass their shit tests, or he appeared too eager or desperate, or he was just being a goon, and in the end, it never happened. Hell, it probably happens a fair amount to chicks throughout their lives–especially those who rely on OLD–because unlike learning game, any douchebag can get good pictures or hire a professional photographer.

The point here is that the difference between Chad and not Chad isn’t that Chad is necessarily so much better looking–it’s that he knows what he’s doing, or is too dumb to get in the way of himself: he just takes what he wants…which is exactly what girls want you to do.

If you want to read more stores of me failing, here you go.


Junior year in college was also a fucking waste.

I basically just smoked tons of weed, listened to angsty, blue pill punk rock and, totally unaware of the concept of day game, dreamed of approaching chicks at the new college I’d transferred to. There were so many beautiful girls it was absolutely astonishing, but I was too big a pussy to do anything about it.

Still had my chances though. Fingered a girl in her mom’s condo and never thought to just take my dick out and stick it inside her–too soon I told myself. Plus, “you don’t have a condom.”

Same thing happened with one of my sister’s friends later that year–this girl was practically begging me to fuck her, but once again, I lacked the wherewithal to set up the right logistics or even bother to take her on a date.

My fourth year in college was similar: several missed opportunities, still a lazy fuck smoking lots of pot and drinking and playing poker, etc.

Two specific misses come to mind that year, however: the first was with a chick from another college, WHO I HAD NAKED IN MY DORM BEDROOM…and didn’t fuck, because she told me she was a virgin–and not only like a fucking moron did I believe her, but because I believed her, I didn’t have the heart to do it, even though she wanted me to!

Later that year I managed to get one of the hottest chicks I’ve ever dated (like a true, blonde, HB 9–her tits and body were amazing) out on a movie date. I’d met her through a gay friend of mine, and like a fucking faggot, after the movie and smoking a joint together back at mine, I couldn’t manage to escalate on her more than a few awkward kisses.

She didn’t come out again after that.


Let’s stop here once more: would a guy who was ugly and out of shape and dressed poorly have had this many chances with this many hot chicks?

The answer is no.

So what was missing?

It wasn’t looks. I was good looking enough to have plenty of opportunities–and keep in mind guys, I’m just reliving the low lights here. There’s at least twice as many pathetic stories I could tell of near misses, failures to launch, and dithering about when it was clear a girl liked me. No my friends, the reason I didn’t get laid–probably would have been up to at least 9-10 now by age 22–was because I was a total beta with no game: a Sith Lord of Incels, only more pathetic, because whereas at least an incel can say he’s never even had the chance, I’d had dozens.


I suppose you could say my life took a turn when I finally got another girlfriend my fifth year of college (turns out I am that special kind of starshine), because low and behold ladies and gentlemen, I got her with GAME!

Sort of.

In fairness we met in a Women’s History class in which I was one of three dudes, and by far the best looking–plus the other two were complete tools. At least a few of the chicks in class liked me, so I had a bit of preselection going, and then ended up getting the number of the one I thought was cutest: a mousy, petite brunette with a tight ass and nice big tits (just my type). Plus she had this scratchy, smoky, sexy voice. Damn that’s hot.

We got coffee a few times after class, and then one Friday night she invited me to go out downtown with some mutual friends. And somehow I transformed into a total baller: I flirted, teased, became the alpha of the group–didn’t flinch or complain when they all suggested we go to a gay bar. Just went along, danced, had fun, got hit on by some gay dudes, and then, ended up taking a taxi home with her, drinking in her apartment.

As we smoked a cigarette on her balcony, she says, “you know we’re not having sex tonight, right?”

Not missing a beat, I say, “of course–I wouldn’t dare besmirch your character as a lady” (we had kind of an inside joke of speaking overly formal to each other). But it was pitch perfect, and then, you all know what happened next: P IN V!!! RP gets fucking laid, wahoo! For only the second time in his young life at age 23, which probably qualifies me for the Sacred Inner Circle of Lifetime Incels, right DT?

Anyway, we fucked a ton. Her pussy was absolutely amazing–plus she was smart and cool and had a cat I quite liked.

But it didn’t end well–actually about as bad as possible without the “P” word.

We dated right up until graduation, but a few weeks before I began to feel some shooting pains in my dick and noticed some green discharge coming out.

Bitch gave me the clap!

This was somehow mysterious to me then–like I couldn’t imagine that she would have cheated on me. But of course that’s precisely what happened. Fucked some other guy because that’s what chicks do when they’re young and hot and the opportunity presents itself. Plus as I’ve established, I was a massive beta, making her behavior all the more likely.

Luckily, it was solved quickly enough with some antibiotics, but I was truly heartbroken. I really did love her. We’d talked about marriage. We had a deep connection. We shared the same taste in good food and wine. But even then, as bluepill as I was, I knew better than to wife up a chick who cheats.

However, our relationship marked somewhat of a turning point for me. I’d fucked enough now to be a more stable man–OK, perhaps still a boy–but I finally knew how to act around girls, how to escalate, how to flirt, how to be aloof, and to some degree at least, how to fuck.


After college I was a somewhat aimless fuck in terms of jobs.

Worked at a health club for awhile at first–fucked a single mom from work in the same bed as her kid after the Christmas Party. Almost fucked a 17-year-old who worked there too. Could have, but thought better of it, and to this day one of the few lays I don’t regret missing, because I was 24 at the time and could have easily been accused of statutory rape: RP reminds you to stay on the right side of the law fellas, especially when it comes to the age of consent.

The true game changer came, however, when I ended up getting a job waiting tables at the Olive Garden.

It didn’t hurt that I was regularly running several times a week, playing a lot of tennis and hitting the gym hard, but anyone who’s worked in the restaurant industry knows that there is a lot of pussy to be had if you play it right, whether you’re in shape or not.

Think I fucked five girls all told during my time at the OG–two of them were roommates for fuck’s sake. It was a beautiful combination of booze, familiarity, and pre-selection–a social circle a goldmine. When I moved on to another restaurant, things weren’t as quite as fruitful, but it was during this time I managed to take the virginity of a friend’s friend: we’d hooked up a bunch of times at parties, but never had sex, and then one magical night she just invited herself over and offered herself to me–a sign I was beginning to become a true Chad.


Around the time I went to grad school, I read The Game, which turned out to be another life altering experience.

Whereas before I’d gotten by on social circle (I’m old enough that online game really didn’t exist when I was in my 20s) and work and school and luck, I realized for the first time it was possible to just go up to chicks and talk to them, try to get their number, etc. More important, I began to see that this was an evolutionary thing, not some kind of trick or gimmick–game after all, is the act of first mimicking, then coming to embody the natural behaviors of a desirable “alpha” male.

My initial attempts at cold approach were awkward: one offs at bars (still something I do quite often–or did, before the Rona), a little night game here and there, some day game at the mall–although I had no idea that was what it was called at the time (not even sure if the term had been coined). But I was determined to get better, even though I mostly failed at first; I’ve always been a process oriented guy averse to failure and quitting. Baseball taught me those values above all else: a game of constant failure when it comes to hitting, juxtaposed by the expectation of perfect execution in the field.

And sure enough, it paid off.

I started getting numbers, and about two months after reading the last page I got my first lay–pulled a chick home from night game in fact. The success made me cocky, and since getting laid is somewhat contagious, I went on a lovely little run in which I think I banged six or seven chicks in the matter of a summer, fall, and winter…and I was actually on a date the following spring with another chick I’d met through cold approach when I met the woman who was to become my ex-wife (another example of pre-selection at work).

She was by far the hottest chick I’d managed to get to that point in my life, and also the highest quality: super smart, from a wealthy family, into fine dining, good beer and wine–so I did what you might expect and married her.

Like, that was the point of all this right? Use game to get the sort of chick you want, wife her up, have kids, get a house in the burbs, and then die with a lot of nice possessions in your house?

Well, alas brothers…we all know how it ended. The only thing I’ll say about it for now is that had I been red pilled, I would probably still be married and you all wouldn’t have my bullshit to put up with on Twitter. Instead I got fat, did most of the housework and cooking, and ran the “happy wife–happy life” weak-ass game most guys try to run these days, and around year seven–and after the kid–the whole thing fell apart…but that’s a post in and of itself for another time.

In the meantime, divorce meant I was back to meat grinder.


Initially, though disappointed in the failure of our marriage, I was excited by the prospect of being single again–smart phones had only just been invented when I got married and dating apps didn’t exist (online dating did, but it was for reserved for true weirdos). Urban legend had it that getting laid was now easy: just download Tinder and start swiping.

I was, however, quickly relieved of my optimism.

I was fat. I’d been married. I had a kid. And I had no fucking idea what the hell I was doing.

For a long time nothing happened; the few matches I got I had no interest in dating–my ex-wife was a solid 8 when we met (not so when we divorced–I wasn’t the only one who got fat)…and here I was, at best matching with 5s out of desperation.

Sad. But I had my standards damnit. And mama didn’t raise no dummy–I quickly realized the problem was my pics and the reason my pics were a problem was that I was tubby piece of shit, so I got a gym membership, watched what I ate, lost a lot of the flab and took better pictures. And gradually, things got better…

Just not that much better.

As in: when I started matching with mostly single moms who were at best 6s and 7s in their 30s, I thought that was pretty good. So I started going on dates…but goddamn if most of those first few bitches weren’t catfishing.

I distinctly remember my first date from Tinder. We were supposed to meet at a bar to get a drink, but when I walked in I walked right past her, because in her pics she looked like a hot, doe eyed vixen, but in reality she was a huge fat person, who’d done herself no favors by showing up early and having an appetizer (cheese sticks) on the table before I even got there. When she waved, I shuddered inside, but went and sat down like a gentlemen, then proceeded to get absolutely shitfaced drunk–though still not enough to try my hand at fucking her.

On the very next date from OLD (Bumble this time I think), I pulled up in my SUV and saw a giantess get out of her car–couldn’t be the same girl I’d matched with, right? But no, on closer examination her starfish tattoo looked exactly like the one in her dating profile. Fuck. This time, however, I just drove home.

And then got shitfaced drunk.

My pics and matches gradually got better, however, and toward the end of 2017, I actually managed to get laid. She was a single mom server who looked super hot based in her profile pics, but when her clothes came off she was already getting old woman saggy (to her credit, she did at least have some nice tits and was thin and pretty). But my game was so weak that when I tried to escalate at first, she rebuffed me; little did I know, she was trying to get me to stick around where most guys wouldn’t–had lined me up as beta buck starfish sex guy who had to pay his dues and be a potential surrogate daddy to her kid.

But I was pretty desperate, so I stuck around long enough to get the notch. I think we hung out for about a month or so, and then after New Years 2018 I realized I had no intentions of wanting a relationship with this chick, that I’d rather masturbate to porn for the rest of my life if this was the best quality I could get, and needed to get the hell out of there.

Shortly thereafter some married friends set me up with a chick who was far more attractive…only problem: she was also crazy possessive. And just plain ass fucking crazy. But I was a greedy bastard and fucked her anyway without a condom the second time we hung out, came in her, and then, realizing my mistake in a panic, drove her to the clinic immediately after to get a Plan B. And yes, I made her take it in front of me. I actually have a short story written about that little episode I might have to publish someday.

Don’t judge me bros: shit gets weird after divorce.

In any case, it was around this particular low point that somehow, someway, I found myself on r/TheRedPill.

I’m pretty sure I was looking up pick up material, or reading a blog by a dating coach or something–I honestly can’t remember exactly how I got there…but once there, holy shit! Of course at first I was like: Jesus these guys are bitter misogynistic assholes, but as I read the sidebar–mostly out of curiosity–in a matter of a few hours my entire universe was turned upside down.

For as most of you reading now know: once you’ve seen The Red Pill, you cannot unsee it. It’s ubiquitous. Constant. Like fucking gravity in some ways.

And suddenly, more importantly, everything made sense. I know guys talk about the anger phase, but I never really got angry all at once. Or perhaps sometimes I’m still angry and it just comes out intermittently. But mostly I was just like: holy shit–where the fuck was this information when I was 16? And now that you’ve seen how many lays I missed (imagine what kind of things I could have done if I’d known better), you can see why.

The rest has mostly been captured here on this blog.

But to finish the tale, I went on an absolute spree from there, watching all the infields I could, reading every blog and book on pick up or seduction I could find, binge listening to all of Torero’s podcasts, worshipping James Marshall and Todd V like gods, etc. I started lifting hard and heavy, reading books, talking to girls, and perhaps most importantly, I stopped taking shit from people, especially women.

Once again my initial efforts at cold approach were not well received, but over the summer I managed to fuck a 21-year-old chick via night game, and had a 19-year-old giving me weekly blowjobs for awhile (she wouldn’t fuck–was a virgin and being a church going Christian girl I’m inclined to believe her), until finally the dam burst in August/September of 2018 when I went on a crazy run of fucking through the summer/fall of 2019…I mean, I haven’t done horribly since then, especially given that we had a pandemic, but it hasn’t been the same: too many of my lays in 2020 seemed like luck (plus several of them ghosted me, which always feels weird after having that sort of connection), and four were from OLD.

But as I’ve said in prior posts…I’m very excited for 2021.


So, what’s the point?

Well, hopefully it was entertaining. I challenge everyone out there in the community now to write their own origin story–if you don’t have a blog, I’ll publish them here so long as they’re honest, written intelligibly, and I can edit them for grammar and conventions…

But the larger point is this: whatever level of good looking I am, it was never my baseline looks that made the difference. Not just when I was young, but throughout my entire life. And that’s almost certainly going to be the case for anyone who’s reading this now.

Like: did I get more pussy when I was in my great shape? Absolutely. But there were also many times in my life when I was in great shape and managed not to get any pussy at all–like almost all of college.

Because GAME FUCKING MATTERS. It is NOT just about looks, and anyone who tells you otherwise is the true spiritual incel.

Moreover, “game is played in the grey areas” as a fellow player reminded me recently. If you’re never getting shit tested, if you’re never missing lays, if you never have dates to nowhere, if you never get rejected or frustrated or struggle: YOU’RE NOT FUCKING HOT GIRLS…or you’re paying them, or you have a bisexual girlfriend who’s doing most of the work (no dig on guys who have a main, but you have know it makes things easier–which is absolutely a great, great thing–just not something most guys are going to be able to count on), or you’re a fucking liar and you’re not getting laid at all.

We’re on the cusp of 2021 boys–many of you will already be there by the time you read this–and whenever the COVID panic subsides, it’s going to get really good, really fast.

Will you be ready?

If you want help getting there–if you want to cut down on a lot of the struggles I had to figure out as I went and making tons of mistakes–hit me up for some coaching and we’ll decide if it’s a good fit and I can help you. You can DM me on Twitter or shoot me an email:


In the meantime, Happy New Year you goddamn degenerates! Much love!


  1. Some of us had to learn and grow into our proverbial skins. Not only in relationships but in general.

    Learning boundaries and “observations” were important “a ha” moments.

    (Observations like women had their own battles in their minds and that it is okay to disappoint people!)


  2. Thanks for sharing your story! It reminds me of the character Simon in the British TV show The Inbetweeners. He’s the best looking out of the four main characters, and he gets plenty of opportunities with girls, but he always manages to mess them up. Also just wondering if you went to the college pictured at the top of the article? I won’t mention the name here but I recognize the building because it’s my alma mater (I was there from 2008-2012).


  3. >WHO I HAD NAKED IN MY DORM BEDROOM…and didn’t fuck,

    Bruh…reading this has me re-living the same memory of my own. Looking back at college, there were at least 3 lays on the table that I ineptly fumbled. Like you, I strongly bought into this idea:

    “Because everything the world had taught me said you could communicate with women like rational adults, because women were rational adults–any other view was obviously some form of barbaric misogyny.””

    In addition, my blue-pill conditioning taught me to expect the girl to lead. I thought it was the right thing to do, because I wanted to be sure she was comfortable and didn’t feel pressured into sex. I had this weird idea that most men are evil, uncouth aggressors; whereas I was the patient, understanding white knight for which an angelic girl would reward me with listless, starfish sex that she wouldn’t enjoy by would gift upon me for my selfless virtues. And that only happens when the girl escalates, because anything else is rape.

    How foolish!

    >my fifth year of college
    We called ourselves “super seniors”.


  4. I see why game & red pill have meant so much to you… with just a little bit of direction & escalation, you would have killed it.

    Reminds me of Chris from good looking loser, another guy who had all the preconditions but couldn’t / didn’t escalate, and didn’t do well as a result.

    This story is also a reminder of why/how older guys can do well… if the younger guys are hiding their dicks and/or sitting on their dicks, someone is going to need to fuck those younger girls.

    Sometimes, trying is enough to get a lot of lays. It is possible to overthink some situations…

    Congats for learning what you have learned and sharing it with others

    Liked by 1 person

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