It happened to me, once. Over three weeks, I tried and failed to close ten girls. Tough sledding, to be sure. But I stayed outside my head, and never allowed it to get to me (beyond a post-rough patch recollection of the numbers of girls involved while telling the tale to friends).

No womanizer who’s worth his colloquial designation would fold after ten successive rejections. Maybe he’d muse on his streak of bad luck, but he’d never question his desirability to women. That’s the kind of knee-jerk emotional spasm reserved for blubbery beta males riven with self-doubt after ONE rejection.

You’ll know you’ve achieved Rod Emperor status when failed pickups leave no more impression on your psyche than failed lottery tickets.

After that three-week twat trough, the fourth week shone its labial light upon yours unruly: three numbers, two makings of the love.

He persisted, and she submitted.