Moment of truth: I thought I had my ‘player radar’ tuned to perfection. Heck, I’ve been writing about and studying these types of men for years. I thought I’d seen every trick in the book.
But last month, I got duped.
It started off as a very casual date. One glass of wine, legs crossed, phone on silent, brain firmly switched on. The plan was simple: suss him out, decide if he was more than a pretty face, and absolutely no bedroom antics. He had a reputation for rotating women like socks, and I’ve collected enough of those déjà-vu heartbreak stories to last a lifetime.
So, there I was, feeling smugly sensible in my ‘slow and steady’ mindset… until he suggested we move to a tiny speakeasy a few streets away for a quick negroni. ‘Why not?’ I was stone-cold sober, had held back on the oversharing, and my skinny jeans were firmly zipped up.
Speakeasy one led seamlessly to a dimly lit Italian restaurant for ‘the best pasta you will ever try in in your life’. Minutes later we were twirling linguine and laughing about ridiculous childhood stories. He paid, then suggested a moonlit stroll by the harbor ‘just to walk off the carbs.’
By the time we reached the water, I felt like I’d known the man for months. Spoiler alert: I went home with him.
I woke up the next morning equal parts satisfied and mildly annoyed with myself for not sticking to the plan. And let me be clear, I’m not anti-sex on the first date. Big fan of it. The three serious relationships I’ve had all started with a cheeky first-night romp, so I don’t buy into the rubbish that a man won’t take you seriously if you sleep with him on night one.
I thought I had my ‘player radar’ tuned to perfection. Heck, I’ve been writing about and studying these types of men for years. I thought I’d seen every trick in the book. But last month, I got duped. (Pictured: Columnist Jana Hocking)
It started off as a very casual date. One glass of wine, legs crossed, phone on silent, brain firmly switched on. The plan was simple: suss him out, decide if he was more than a pretty face, and absolutely no bedroom antics.
A few nights later, still mildly peeved at myself, I landed on an Instagram reel that put all the puzzle pieces into place.
Neuroscientist Andrew Huberman was chatting with podcast host Chris Williamson about something called progressive context bonding. Apparently, if two people visit three different locations in one day, the brain interprets it as deep emotional connection. Each new setting tricks your subconscious into thinking you’ve shared more than you actually have.
But as Chris was quick to point out, pickup artists have been using this trick for over 15 years to simulate emotional depth, not build it, all in the hopes of getting women into bed faster. I watched the clip again, thinking ‘Oh, I’ve been taken for a fool!’
I replayed the date: wine bar, restaurant, harbor walk. Of course I felt connected. I’d been ferried through three novelty-soaked settings in under four hours. My reasonable side whispered, ‘But you’re a grown ass woman. You knew the score.’ The science side screamed, ‘Oxytocin! Dopamine! You never stood a chance.’
Curious (and a little salty), I did some digging and turns out, this wasn’t new at all.
Famous pick-up artist, Neil Strauss, described the exact same move in his 2005 book The Game.
Back then, it was called an ‘instant date.’ The idea was to take a woman to multiple locations in one night, from a bar, to a diner, to an apartment, to fast-track emotional intimacy.
Neuroscientist Andrew Huberman (above) was chatting with podcast host Chris Williamson about something called progressive context bonding.
Each new setting made the experience feel more meaningful, more memorable, and more like something real was forming. In reality, it was just psychological sleight of hand.
To confirm my suspicions, I messaged two other women who I knew had also dated this guy and asked: had he done the same multi-location routine with them? Both came back with a slightly pissed off, ‘Yes.’
What annoys me most, is how slickly this trick bypasses every self-preservation rule we champion. We tell each other, ‘Watch for love-bombing. Stay sober. Keep conversation balanced.’
Meanwhile, he’s slipping in micro-commitments that seem harmless: one more drink, one more cute little stroll, one more rooftop deep-and-meaningful. You think you’re choosing the adventure, but really, you’re being ushered along a conveyor belt to his bedsheets before you’ve clocked the exit signs.
To confirm my suspicions, I messaged two other women who I knew had also dated this guy and asked: had he done the same multi-location routine with them? Both came back with a slightly pissed off, ‘Yes.’
And these dark-arts daters have plenty of other tricks up their sleeves.
There are the deep questions about childhood dreams or dead pets. Mirroring your body language. Dangling future plans they have zero intention of keeping.
It’s emotional fast food. Salty, delicious, and leaves you hungry an hour later.
The next morning the text stream shrivels from ‘Last night was magic’ to ‘Busy week ahead, will shout you later.’
Translation: mission accomplished. On to the next unsuspecting dopamine junkie.
Now, I’m not anti-novelty. Take me trampolining, then to a salsa class, then out for Korean fried chicken. Please do. But there’s a big difference between genuine spontaneity and a rehearsed thrill ride designed to cash in your knickers.
So how do we spot the difference? Ladies, listen for the rhythm. Real dates breathe. They have pauses, awkward moments, little silences where you get to decide if it’s all feeling right. Manipulative ones sprint from highlight to highlight because stillness invites scrutiny, and scrutiny ruins the spell.
The next morning the text stream shrivels from ‘Last night was magic’ to ‘Busy week ahead, will shout you later.’ Translation: mission accomplished. On to the next unsuspecting dopamine junkie.
So I have a new litmus test: The second-date drag. If he’s willing to save a location for another night, he’s probably there to get to know you, not collect your panties. If everything’s go-go-go from the jump, it’s worth asking: is this connection, or just choreography?
And let’s ditch the shame. Falling for this doesn’t make you silly (note to self). There’s a literal chemical cocktail at play. We don’t berate ourselves for enjoying rollercoasters, we understand that adrenaline does its thing. Same concept, different ride.
The fix isn’t guilt. It’s awareness.
So tell your girlfriends. Share the term. And if you do decide to hop on the three-stop carousel anyway, just do it with eyes wide open, your own pleasure prioritised. Oh, and condoms. Always condoms.
As for my suave itinerary-master… He resurfaced via text a week later: ‘Got reservations at a new wine bar, you in?’ I suggested brunch next Sunday instead. Funny, he’s yet to confirm. Guess daylight and a hard-out time ruin the magic trick.
