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One time in South Beach I wandered into one of the art deco hotels and found myself surrounded by models. It was 1AM and I was drunk so it seemed like a good idea to roam the halls of a random hotel and crash any parties in progress. Every other room door was open and filled with beautiful people smoking pot, lounging on bean bags, and languidly caressing each other. There were hippie beaded doors and silk see-through fabrics substituting for real doors from which billowing clouds of pot smoke would emanate. The whole place gave the impression of walking through an interactive diorama of set pieces featuring the genetically perfect in their native habitat doing what they do best — snorting hedonism like an eight ball.

Passing by one of the rooms a girl shouted out at me to come in and join them. “Hey you, whatever your name is, don’t be shy!” I was barely out of college and had no game for this type of situation so all I could do was nod at the group and feel my pupils dilate to maximum aperture to take in the breathtakingly beautiful women. An occasional 9 or 10 walking down the street is a rare treat and can knock a guy right out of his daily humdrum stupor, but a roomful of 9s and 10s in seductive half-naked poses, doing that thing where you’re high and laughing without any noise coming out of your mouth, and gesturing for you to come closer where you take in their natural aromas, will make you catatonic. I tried hard to ignore the male models scuffling around the room in their underwear and felt relieved that the purity of my heterosexuality was not challenged by their six sigma good looks.

I sat on the purple shag rug next to one of the girls, a waifish brunette with olive skin and Mila Kunis lips. Her body and face couldn’t have been crafted any better by a master sculptor. I admired her flat stomach under her half-shirt dangling like an awning off her boobs.

“Where are you from?”
“Nowhere.” (I was very angsty back then.)
“Well, Mr. Nowhere, spark it up! You look tense.”
She handed me a spliff. I coughed on my first drag.
“I should warn you, it’s strong leaf.”
Suddenly, she leaned over and planted her lips on mine. The sensations overwhelmed me. I felt like I was having an out of body experience. We kissed for a few seconds. She pulled back and laughed as she slapped the back of her hand against her forehead.
“Hey dude, beer’s on the balcony.” One of the male models was talking to me.
I looked over and saw that my new love had her hand on his knee and he was chuckling. I stood up and went to the balcony. There was no beer in the cooler. Looking around, I saw that no one was paying me attention anymore. I left to find my friend.

That night was a glimpse into another world, a secret society of blessed people who are above 99.999999% of humanity, flouting every known convention and not giving a fuck. I fondly remember my first kiss with a 10 better than I do my actual first kiss. Enjoying the pleasure of a truly stunning woman is an experience like no other on this earth. Mediocre women — even attractive 8s — don’t provide the same profound depth of stimulation. I don’t know how so many men can get it up for ugly women.

In the age old question of quantity versus quality a balance must be struck. The super alphas will cycle through a rotation of the hottest women. Everyone else must compromise in some way. Variety in itself is a turn-on, but steady sex from one exceptionally beautiful woman is more rewarding than new sex with a plethora of plain janes.

Beautiful women are worth holding out for. By “holding out” I mean “saving your commitment”. One night of sex with a 10 is equal to ten years of sex with fifty 6s.

Tomorrow I will discuss the quantity vs quality pussy issue in more detail.

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