When will dating stop being so hard for Gen Z?
Last Updated: 16.06.2025 09:15
Enter Gen Z, a new crop of frustrated souls, but the frustration is eerily familiar.
If you’ve got a reason for NOT approaching women - don’t watch my videos…
That first "uh, hey" would leave your lips, shaky and desperate, and she’d glance at you like you were a stray dog begging for scraps.
Is it safe to say that China is at least 30 years ahead of India?
I’ve ridden this wave long enough to see a generational shift.
**guys don’t approach me!**
Every word out of your mouth felt like a confession at gunpoint. You’d be sweating bullets, trying to sound like some paragon of virtue, knowing full well he was picturing you as the scumbag who’d ruin his daughter’s life.
Which one is better to guys, boobs or butt?
That means - you’ve got almost ZERO competition. You need to start trying. I’ve got dozens of videos with GenZ women complaining about you not trying. Extremely hot - Gen Z chicks.
If there are less guys approaching women - to the point where 50% of guys your age
I listen. I guide. Sometimes I protect.
What is the scariest thing that ever happened in your life?
are either
he’d be the one to pick up.
Both groups—Millennials and Gen Z—are grumbling the same refrain:
Do you wear tights for warmth or to make your legs look better?
So, I dug in, peeled back the layers of this sociocultural onion, and yeah, I’ve figured it out. I know why men aren’t stepping up. And more importantly, I know how to fix it.
That’s the gauntlet we came from—the crucible of humiliation and raw, unfiltered chaos. The one we survived.
And let’s say, by some unholy miracle, you got her number. Don’t start celebrating yet, cowboy—you were still deep in the trenches.
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They spill their secrets, their heartbreaks, their schemes, and their dreams.
These girls, they open up in ways you don’t see in “normal” dating.
In the 90’s - you didn’t have a choice - cold approaching was just what you had to do.
What is a sermon to talk about men?
Now, sugar dating? That’s a different beast. It’s refreshingly laid back—a strange, unspoken contract of mutual honesty and boundary-free conversation.
It’s an epidemic.
They ask for advice, and there’s no jealousy poisoning the well.
No, it was more like strapping on a blindfold, stepping into a minefield, and praying you didn’t explode into a million pathetic pieces.
As a 48-year-old Sugar Daddy, I’ve seen the battlefield from both trenches, and let me tell you—it’s a hell of a vantage point.
If I’d had the choice back then, you can bet your ass I’d have taken the easy way out. But here’s the ugly truth, my friend: all this convenience comes with a price. The grit, the effort, the goddamn humanity of it all has been gutted, leaving behind a sterile, hollow shell.
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And you would. Oh, you absolutely *would*.
Wait too long, and she’d forget you even existed.
Save it for your incel group.
For a solid decade, I was neck-deep in the pick-up artist scene. Yes, it works—and by "works," I mean becoming a swaggering, dopamine-addled caricature of a man. You learn the tricks, the lines, the rhythms of a social dance that’s as contrived as a daytime infomercial. But here’s the rub: it turns you into an unholy blend of desperation and bravado—a full-tilt douchebag with a veneer of charisma. Eventually, you start to hate your own reflection. That’s when I bailed.
In short - you’ve just got no game - but its not your fault.
They’d answer with a voice like gravel and demand to know your name, your intentions, your SAT score—hell, maybe even your blood type.
Has anyone ever had sex with their cousin? How did it start, and would you do it again?
Don’t put your loser negativity in the comment section.
And let me tell you, fathers in those days weren’t just protective; they were full-blown sentinels guarding the gates of hell.
It’s a strange, paternalistic partnership, and God help me, I actually enjoy it.
her dad. If she lived at home—and most of them did back then
But when you finally did muster the nerve to dial, you’d hit another goddamn wall:
If you’re serious about learning how to approach women, then, I’m here to help. Again, I am not selling anything, I don’t want your money - I’m good.
Buckle up, because this is a cocktail of hard-earned wisdom, poor decisions, and a willingness to wade waist-deep into the absurdities of modern dating.
And there was no goddamn escape hatch. No apps to swipe your failures away, no digital armor to protect your ego. You were exposed, raw and bleeding, stranded in the harsh fluorescent light of reality. You’d sit there, a monument to your own humiliation, drowning in the bitter cocktail of shame and regret.
Either way, the clock was ticking, and every passing second chipped away at your already tenuous grip on sanity.
Virgins
First came the mental gymnastics of when to call.
Right now, your natural instinct is to give me a “reason” why you can’t.
Forget the Hollywood fantasy of smirking Casanovas armed with killer one-liners and perfectly tousled hair under neon lights.
I wasn’t suprised…The girls I date are stunners, the kind of women who turn sidewalks into catwalks. Of course guys don’t approach them. Guy’s DON’T approach dimes—they’re terrified.
First of all - I am not selling anything. I am not a “coach.” I don’t want your money. I’m good. I’ve got videos of me in my Lamborghini Huracan, and Ferrari California to prove it.
What I am is a dude who’s actually concerned with this problem, and, I can help. For free.
Dropped out of the dating scene
And now? Now, you just swipe left or right. No awkward calls. No interrogation from dad. No sweaty palms gripping the receiver like a lifeline. It’s all neat, sanitized, and gutless.
All of this is GOOD NEWS! It should seem obvious, but from your perspective, its not.
But as I listened more and started connecting dots, I realized this wasn’t just a hot-girl problem.
I used to date Millennials until they hit the “expiration date.” The youngest Millennials are 29 now—aging out of the sugar scene and into therapy. (The more bitter ones will be in this answer’s comment section)
It sucked. It was a bloodsport—a gladiatorial brawl for your dignity where the odds were stacked against you, the crowd was jeering, and the lions were already licking their chops.
Too soon, and you’d look desperate.
Then it’d come—the rejection, sharp and merciless, cutting through the smoky haze of the room like a knife through your soul. But that wasn’t the worst part, oh no. The worst part was the *spectacle*. Her friends would swoop in like vultures, eyes gleaming, ready to eviscerate what little was left of you. You weren’t just rejected; you were a public execution.
The only mercy was time—time to stew, time to replay every stumble, time to promise yourself you’d never be that stupid again. And then, inevitably, you’d do it all over.