The Greatest Feeling in the World

Seduction is 100% an emotional process. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. All of the lines, tricks, theories, fashion, frames and routines we learn and use are simply tools to create a desired emotional outcome — they’re a means, not an ends.

The Greatest Feeling in the World is when you and a woman are so intimate emotionally, that the physical limitations of your body become stifling. You yearn to melt one another and mix yourselves into some kind of concoction. Sex is a by-product of this process; the ultimate act of physical intimacy. A last-ditch effort to become one with one-another.

When you have The Greatest Feeling in the World, logistics fall by the wayside. The idea of LMR is as absurd as returning money you just won in the lottery. Cockblocks, if they even existed, would be helpless to penetrate your new-found love-bubble. Creating an entire system and library of pick up theory around the banal goal of simply fucking, sells ourselves short. It goes much further than that. Move the goal posts back: aim for the Greatest Feeling in the World, and sex becomes merely a pleasurable side-effect.

It’s always been assumed that it took dating someone months or even years to reach this place. But it can be reached in a matter of hours. And she doesn’t even have to speak your language…

11PM: Buenos Aires. Tourist bar. Mostly Europeans and a few Americans (boring), but also a smattering of South American travelers (more interesting). Quality is mediocre. I seek out the hottest girl there. Found her. She looks Brazilian — as only Brazilians have a smorgasbord of mixed genetics like her. Upon further inspection, she is way, way over-dressed for this place (typical Brazilian behavior) and doesn’t shy away from eye contact when made (only Brazilian girls do this).

She’s talking to two guys. Can’t tell if they’re with her or if they just opened her. I’m busy scavenging for munchies, as I hadn’t eaten yet that night.

We catch eye contact again. Has to be Brazilian. I interrupt their conversation, “You must be Brazilian.” She smiles, “Yes, how did you know?” in broken English. The guys are definitely not with her. They try to remain engaged in the conversation, but it’s apparent within a few minutes that I’m the only one she wants to talk to. They each drop off within a few minutes.

1AM: Dancing. Spinning. Falling (figuratively, not literally). Light kissing. We’re inseparable now. The bubble is forming. No one else dares speak to us. We’re either dancing together, or I’m sitting with my arms wrapped around her. We physically don’t disconnect, ever.

She speaks A+ Portuguese, B+ Spanish and C- English; I speak A+ English, B- Spanish and D Portuguese. Conversations are a linguistic jungle-gym, falling in and out of all three languages. We don’t understand half the shit the other one says. But verbal mis-fires are more than compensated with smiles, eye contact and touch. Remember, the words don’t matter, only the emotions they create.

3AM: Leaving the club now. We lost track of the main group of tourists hours ago although we don’t really care. We made a token effort to figure out which bar they went to, but really it was an excuse for us to do something together. Taxi!

5AM: At my hostel, with my laptop, we buy tickets for a getaway at a beach resort about 5 hours outside Buenos Aires. We book a room on the beach together and plan on leaving the next day.

We’re on day three of our little tryst right now. This is the first time I’ve done an “insta-vacation” with a girl, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous going through with it. But it’s been fine, wonderful even. Our bubble is slowly fading, as the long days together have forced reality to set in a little bit. We’re not in love. We’re not going to get married and have a million babies. We probably won’t even keep in touch. And that’s OK.

But we still love each other’s company. We still laugh together, dance together in inappropriate places, and over-dress everywhere we go and make heads turn, as we are Brazilian and American, and that’s what we do.

On the beach, with her perfect body and tiny bikini (thong), she rubs sun tan lotion on me every afternoon. Every night, we bang and she lives up to the hype of every Brazilian stereotype I’ve heard.

I’m her “American Revolution,” she’s my “Capirinha.” We speak to each other in broken Spanish. We’re creating memories together. And for only a week, we occasionally share The Greatest Feeling in the World.