My daygame has struggled over the last year and a half ever since I fell in love. She was a young and wild one, her thick brown hair tangled like a mess of seaweed. We met in the street on my usual route and everything fell in place. It felt so easy; I felt so me. She had just moved to town and we got snared quickly.
Daygame has taught me far more about myself than techniques on how to get girls. I dont believe in any of the talk about getting girls by trying to manipulate social dynamics. It seems to me that daygame is just the whetstone upon which a man sharpens the iron that already runs in his veins. So when I met this girl I just understood that she was for me; a sheath that happened to fit my blade. Other girls I’d met took more effort for the simple fact that they just didn’t suit me.
We would spend most evenings together, her and I. She rose a fire in me that Id never felt before. I was happy to fuck her 3 or 4 times a day, and at length, sometimes for a whole hour. I had never been as interested in sex with other women. With other girls my whole interest was just getting to the sex. After arriving I would mentally pack my bags and ride to the next town. We would talk at length about things I can not remember, rarely leaving the others arms.
She left me one day. She just sort of faded away. I could feel her slipping and didn’t know how to respond. Was there anything a man could do? I tried my best to stand firm like the oak tree. And I did it though a hatchet had been buried into the side of my trunk. I couldn’t feel her undulating weight, or hear the sound of her humming, nothing from the swing that now hangs still on the branch. I am only reminded of her when the wind blows.
And last night, in a dream. Facing her in some empty room. A smile like a sliver of reprieve.
“What are you doing with yourself?” I asked.
“I started stripping to pay for school.”
I laughed. These things girls tell me.
“Are you making money?”
“It hasn’t been very good so far,” she said.
I nodded.
“Well.. The best strippers are fucked up girls with a great sense of humor,” I told her, “You’re not fucked up.”
She sighed, “We’ll see I guess.”
And then by some error I called her by the wrong name.
“My name’s not Kate,” she cued.
We both began laughing. It was mistake that had been a good one. Cut to the core of who we were. We might have been the only two in the world that knew the other’s name. For that brief moment we were in love again.
With that I awoke. The cold silence of my bedroom. A soft sway in the curtains from the cool blue of the early morning breeze. And slowly, I became sick. The poison creeping through my bones. I dressed myself, put on the kettle, and brushed my teeth. All the while biting my tongue, not to break the mirror, not to yell out, “FUCK YOU ANISE. I FUCKING HATE YOU FOR LEAVING ME.”
Red Moon Coyote 