Sometimes you just can’t put a foot wrong. It happens to everyone. Please, gentlemen, when this happens, when you go on a run, a roll, if you’ve caught a wave, if you’ve spent the past three months just banging, and banging, every piece of ass that you happened to speak to in a bar, or a coffee shop, at the fucking dentist’s office, don’t ever, ever, let anyone call it a streak.

That’s like giving up everything you just spent three hard months building.

For a brief time, you have become a king. People revere you. Don’t forget, perception is everything. What about the ugly guy who always seems to screw hot chicks? It’s nothing to do with his looks. He just believes it. And he lets everyone else believe it. He’s unstoppable. And so are you.

Once you admit to the streak, you lose everything. Chicks smell success, they smell failure. They are like dogs. It’s not luck, and it’s not a fucking streak. Carry your notches with you like a warrior.

Aside: If you got laid last night, don’t wash your pig (the French know this). The smell emanates from you, like a huge marquee advertisement for your sexual prowess. Their little greedy nostrils will start flaring the moment you walk into the bar. “I want some of that,” they’ll be thinking. “What’s so good about that asshole?” Trust me: they’ll give it a shot.

Curiosity killed the cat. Now use curiosity to kill the pussy.

Advise: Completely delete the word ‘streak’ from your vocabulary. Tear the section out of the dictionary. It’s worthless.

Answer anyone who tries to suggest that you’re on a streak with this simple answer: “Streak? What Streak? This is my life, bitch!”