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Weekend Princes: What American Men Can Learn from These Three College Sex Tourists

Weekend Princes: What American Men Can Learn from These Three College Sex Tourists: Photo: Tony Cordoza/Ocean/Corbis

Photo: Tony Cordoza/Ocean/Corbis

It’s the day after Christmas, and I’m sitting in The Rainbow Bar & Grill with three British sex tourists while we wait for a porn star to join us. She just texted that she’s on her way. If you don’t know what The Rainbow Bar is, it’s a legendary rock club on the Sunset Strip. If you don’t know what a sex tourist is, it’s someone who travels the world for sex. Only, unlike the dudes who book flights to Bangkok, these guys don’t pay for it. The last time they were in L.A. they had an orgy with this porn star, and now she’s eager for a second go.

And that’s why I’m here. To answer the question: How do three slightly-above-average-looking guys from a country known for its lackluster cuisine and questionable dentistry have a porn star fantasizing about them? These same blokes from across the pond have partaken in sorority house orgies—how the hell does that happen? How are three British guys named Dan, Chris and Carl swooping in and having more and better sex than millions of American dudes with the home-field advantage?

It all comes down to a thing they discovered about female sexuality. It’s like they have a passport that allows them to have sex with college students from West Virginia to Arizona. But these guys aren’t your classic peacock-neg-display-higher-value pick-up artists. They’re onto something new.


The Rainbow Bar embodies the lost spirit of over-sexed rock star masculinity, which makes it the perfect place to meet these guys. This legendary spot is where the dudes from Led Zeppelin, Guns N’ Roses and the late great Lemmy from Motörhead liked to party with groupies and roadies. You half expect the bathrooms to have the lingering smell of a quickie. It’s a fitting bar to meet these otherwise ordinary lads who figured out how to make women lust after them like actual rock stars.

We settle into a table surrounded by some aging rockers – the sort of leather-clad folk who look and smell like they stepped out of a Metallica concert film. At the table next to us is a guy who could be mistaken for Kevin James if Kevin James really let himself go and started playing ukulele in a Sunset Strip bar. We order drinks, and they introduce themselves: Dan, Chris and Carl. Just three boys from Reading who like to travel America and have group sex with female college students. No last names, please, they ask. As if their exploits won’t eventually catch up with them, but fine, no last names, sure, guys.

If they were a band, Dan, 26, the brown-haired ringleader, would be the bassist who provides the rhythm for the group. The blonde, Chris, 28, would be the loud-talking, charismatic lead singer. And Carl, 26, brown-haired like Dan, the quietest of the three – he’d be the drummer. The reason I imagine them as a band is because they tell me story after story wherein they use this same line with the women they meet in America.

They’ve claimed to be in really big bands like the Arctic Monkeys. Or, like when they visited Bonnaroo, they claimed to be the British indie band Royal Blood. (The best part is the band was playing at that festival.) But these dudes don’t always pretend to be famous musicians. Sometimes they tell women that they’re professional soccer players from the Arsenal football club. They know most Americans can’t name a single Gunner. Other times they say they’re writers from British GQ working on a story about college life. None of these stories are true. Not even close. They work in sales and real estate in England.

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Look past the barstool lies and you see that their first “in” with women – on the surface – is their British accents.

Now, it would be easy to say, “They’re just a bunch of opportunistic liars. What’s so genius about that?” Here’s the difference. Lots of men tell tall tales to meet women, but few with such success. The lying part isn’t their genius. Look past the barstool lies and you see that their first “in” with women – on the surface – is their British accents. American women seem to be fascinated by the idea of meeting their very own English prince. Thanks to this commoner’s fantasy they’ve managed to crack a code that has allowed them to become modern-day hedonists.

But right now you’re probably still fixated on the fact that these guys fly to America and lie to college women to have sex. You might be thinking, “Dude, that’s fucked-up.” It goes without saying: No one recommends you lie to women to have sex. Lying to women is a terrible thing to do, and on a practical level, it rarely works. So don’t do that. But if we dismiss these dudes merely as charming importers of lies, we’ll miss the genius that they’ve stumbled across.

Look past their lack of honesty and you can learn something valuable about female sexuality and how to arouse a woman. None of which, by the way, depends on lies to work. You don’t even need a British accent. All you need is to be willing to engage with a woman’s fantasies.


Dan, Carl and Chris (left to right)

Dan, Carl and Chris (left to right)

As I sip on my pale ale the ringleader Dan explains how it all began. “We’d heard about spring break when we were younger. We went on a few spring breaks in America and were like, ‘This is amazing. We’re cleaning up here. The birds love us out here because we’ve got a bit of an accent.’”

No doubt. They’re unmistakably British. They are what American women must picture when they imagine cute British guys. They dress well. They smell good. They love soccer but call it football. They have a confident gleam in their eyes that hints at a bit of the rogue. If we’re talking about the American fantasy of meeting a prince, these lads fit the bill. Or at least they do for a night.

“Two years ago we came to L.A. for a bit of a lads’ week,” Dan says. “The four guys who arrived, we all did fine. But the difference between going to L.A. and meeting a load of girls who speak to British guys all the time and going to Alabama where they’ve never left the state? They don’t have passports. Y’know what I mean?”

Carl, the quiet one, adds, “They’ve never actually heard a British accent. Except for on TV.”

“We’ve each had it where we go into a sorority house at like 10:30 at night, and they’re like, ‘Madeline, I’m having him. Madeline, he’s mine!’” Dan says, smiling at the memory. “And it’s just like, ‘God, this is what you come here for, isn’t it?”

Sure. What red-blooded man who enjoys sex with women would not love a sorority house filled with college women arguing over who gets to sleep with him?

“Back in Reading, or London, we might get girls who are sevens. For us, that’s good. You go over here and you get like cheerleaders who are just dying. ‘Oh my god, you’re English. You dress in not a fucking North Face jacket and a backwards baseball cap.’ The Southern states just go potty for it,” Dan says, beaming.

Chris jumps in to correct the record. “We’re no idiots at home. Everyone does alright. We don’t struggle at home. But over here it’s ridiculous.”

Dan mentions the differences between themselves and American guys in the South. “They wear hunting jackets and dungarees in the bar. The girls are used to that. And the frat boys are just dickheads, or they’re just like ‘Let’s get fucked up and piss ourselves.’ Which is all so boring.”

This describes the college bars I’ve been to in the South. And Dan’s right. A group of good-looking, clean British lads in button-down shirts and nice shoes would be a stark contrast to a bunch of dudes in shirts that advertise chewing tobacco. But women are not so superficial that they’ll go home with any a good-looking guy who can speak in full sentences. Surely, there’s something else going on here. Something deeper.

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It’s clear that it’s not just their British accents that drops panties. It’s their attitude. These guys are confident.

Listening to their stories, it’s clear that it’s not just their British accents that drops panties. It’s their attitude. These guys are confident. From what I know about women, that’s sexy. It seems like their confidence is a sports car, while their accent is the convertible top. Their confidence gets them there, and the convertible makes the ride cool. They tell me their road to becoming sexual geniuses started in West Virginia.


Dan says, “In the summer of 2013 we were like, ‘Where should we go? Let’s just do a trip for, like, three or four days.’ We come across these lists of the best party schools to go to in America. If you Google these lists, you see how The Bleacher Report and Playboy, you guys make these updated annual lists. We noticed West Virginia keeps cropping up.”

Carl explains why West Virginia was such a brilliant destination for sex tourism. “The thing is, most of the Brits back home, when they think of America, generally, they think of Las Vegas or New York. For spring break, they think of Cancun. A couple of years ago there was a British TV show that went out there. This show is like the British ‘Jersey Shore.’ Now Cancun is just filled with Brits. But no Brits ever think to go to West Virginia.”

I tell Carl this also is true of most Americans.

Dan is quick to defend their choice. “That was a great trip. And afterwards, we’re like, ‘Obviously we have to keep this going.’ We realized we’d hit a gravy train. You get into the rhythm of these college towns, and they’re all like, ‘Oh my god, why are you here?’ And we’re like, ‘We just stumbled across this while we’re traveling.’ Or we give them the ‘we’re from British GQ’ chat or whatever. The response is the same every time. It’s just so friendly, and the girls are lovely. You go down there, and you get treated like a king. That’s the attraction.

“Back home when we tell people about it we know that some people will be like, ‘That’s a bit fucking weird.’ Everyone at home is like, ‘Why do you go to remote places? West Virginia is like the armpit of America, isn’t it?’ Which it is, apart from Morgantown, which is just banging with birds. But the rest of it is an armpit. Like, we had a taxi driver with one tooth.”

“And he loved us!” Chris shouts over the noise of the bar.

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No Brits ever think to go to West Virginia.

It’s not just American women who go for the British charm. They tell me about their run-ins with the law down South. Turns out those good ol’ boy sheriffs are just as charmed by the Brits as their small-town daughters are.

Chris tells the story of the trip to West Virginia. “We flew into Washington and drove up. On the way there we got caught doing 110 miles an hour by the police. Pulled us over. And then he hears we’re English. He’s the local sheriff in these hillbilly backwoods. He’s like, ‘What are you doing? Are you guys going to the game?’ And we were like, ‘Uh, yeah, yeah we are.’ He was like, ‘OK, have a good time.’ He let’s us go.” Chris can barely contain his laughter.

Carl says, “The accent even works on the boys, y’know?”

Now we all erupt. Mostly I’m laughing at the idea of an anglophile Southern sheriff going weak-at-the-knees, impressed at the sound of these British libertines and the terribly charming way they talk. (This American tendency also explains most of Hugh Grant’s success in movies.)

But not everyone has been so smitten with these Brits.

Chris tells the story of where they went next: Westchester, Pa. Also a small college town like Morgantown. And rural. This was trouble for Chris. After a night out he went home with a woman. Only trouble was she lived 40 miles away in the thick of the forest.

“We turn up the house, right? It freaked me out. It’s in the middle of the woods. But I go in. And I’m speaking to her sister, and she’s like, ‘Set your alarm for six in the morning.’ And I’m like, ‘What do I have to do that for?’ And she’s like, ‘Because that way you’re up before my mum and dad get up.’ I was like, ‘You live with your fucking mum and dad?!’ But then, I was like, ‘Oh, alright,’ and I set the alarm.”

The parents being home didn’t seem to bother Chris. But his presence totally bothered them.

“I walk into her bedroom. But then, on the other side of the door, World War III kicks off in the hallway. Her mum and dad are yelling at her, ‘You’ve got no respect for yourself. You’re a slut! Who is he?’ I’m telling it now like I’m really cool. But I was so scared. I mean, I’m in the woods. You hear all these gun stories about America. I’ve taken a look at the jump from the window. It’s doable.”

Just when I think I know how the story is going to go, it takes a hard turn.

“I look at my phone. Battery gone. There’s no taxis in Westchester, let alone in the woods. So, now I’m thinking: I’m going to have to ride this out. Meanwhile, she’s denying there’s anyone in her bedroom. But after five minutes of yelling, she’s like, ‘Alright, he’s in there.’ I decide the only way is for me to go out there, and in my best English accent say, ‘I’m really sorry about all this bickering. If you can just arrange for me to get home.’ In my head, I’m thinking, ‘They’re reasonable.’ They’ll be like, ‘OK, you can’t fuck our daughter, but we’ll get you home. You’re not from our country.’’”

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This is not what happens.

“The dad comes out. He’s six-foot-two. He looks like a serial killer, with that slick, oily hair. As soon as I start speaking, I say, ‘I’m really sorry about all this’—and the mum’s just gone for me.”

Chris crosses his hands over his head, as if to block her blows.

“The girl jumps in between us. She starts ushering me down the stairs. Her mum’s throwing like those little collectibles at me. They’re hitting me in the head like: bang, bang, bang. I’m like, ‘Why is she throwing things?’ We get to the bottom of the stairs, and this bird grabs some keys. She throws me in their family minivan. The mum chases us down the drive. She smashes into some garbage cans. They go flying, right? Finally, we get out of there. And I’m like, ‘Oh my god, this is crazy.’ She pulls over outside this enormous church. The car park is just massive. You know how Southern churches are? So, we smash in the car. I fuck her in the minivan in the church parking lot. And then she drives me back to Westchester.”

Again, everyone at the table explodes. These are the stories you tell your boys. But you see how it wasn’t his British accent that saved his ass. It was his confidence. And when I hear the story, I imagine that’s why the woman wanted to have sex with him in a church parking lot. That, or she’s just kind of kinky. Either way, it was her choice and clearly what she wanted to do.

I ask them what’s different about American women from British women.

For someone who lies as easily and as often as he does, Chris is always very honest with his answers. “We’ve got a bit of a bad reputation back home. We’re no angels.”

“And in England, bad boy man sluts are not sexy,” Dan says.

“It’s more like Chris Brown,” Chris adds. Everyone laughs at the mention.

Carl, always the last to speak, draws the biggest differences. “Over here, if you’re a bad boy, and you got loads of birds in the game, the birds like it. But back home, they just think you’re a party slut. It’s a bit more like prudish in England. In America, the birds seem a bit more liberal. I don’t know if it’s just a British thing or what.”

I don’t think it would surprise anyone to learn American women are less uptight than British women. “You guys have figured out how to get American girls to cut loose and enjoy threesomes, group sex, orgies. You say American women are more fun in bed. Does that mean you’ve learned sex tricks from sleeping with so many different women from America?” I ask them point blank and then take a long drink from my beer as I wait for their answer.

This time Carl is first to speak. “I prefer American girls to British girls. They’re much more liberal; they’re much more expressive. I don’t know what it is. They’re more in the moment. They’re a bit more adventurous. And I’d like to say I’ve gotten a bit better as a result. It’s kind of like fucking a porn star.”

Don’t know if American women would find that to be a compliment or not. But I get what he means. And, unlike most guys, Carl can really make that comparison. He and Dan double-teamed the porn star the last time they were in Los Angeles, the one who’ll soon be joining us at the bar. She’s the real deal, too. Used to be Ron Jeremy’s roommate.

“The last time we were in L.A., the World Cup was on. We were in a bar, a British bar, and do you know Ron Jeremy?” Carl asks me, like any American man alive today doesn’t know who Ron Jeremy is. “He walks in with a bunch of pretty blondes. They’re all porn stars. And seeing the porn stars up close, we were all getting a little bit excited. So, later, we’re about to leave and one of the birds—her name’s Brittina—starts chatting us up. She’s British, very forward. She gives us her number. And, mate, she’s the most insatiable woman I’ve ever met in my whole life.”

Dan casually adds, “That’s why we’re seeing her tonight.”

“Ever since we double-teamed her, every time we’re in town she’s like, ‘I want to see you guys,’” Carl says, finishing Dan’s thought.

You really have to hand it to these dudes. They have a porn star begging for some amateur dick.

“What’s crazy to me is that you guys are her fantasy. You guys are the ones a porn star fantasizes about. Man, you must love that.” I say, not even trying to hide how impressed I am.

Dan says, “What I love is hearing, ‘Oh, fuck me,’ in an American accent.’” Everyone laughs.

As we wait for Brittina to arrive, they regale me with an endless stream of stories of sleeping with college women from the big schools in the SEC.

“Athens, Georgia.” Dan says, his accent makes Athens sound dignified, “That’s when we started doing southeastern colleges. That all started with Athens.”

“How did that go? As well as West Virginia?” I ask.

Carl answers, “There were the orgies and threesomes.”

Chris interrupts, “There was that set of two identical twins that were amazing. Like, we went to a sorority house party. And we’ve got all of that on videos and pics.”

He pulls out his phone and cues up the vids he just mentioned. I see the British lads surrounded by women from a sorority. On the count of three, all the women lift their shirts and bare their breasts for the camera. The lads look just as happy as you’d expect.

“After Athens, we went to Panama City.” Chris picks up the tale, “We went there for like five nights. The numbers that we clocked up. How many like eight, nine?”

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Being British, they treat their sexual escapades like they’re competitive soccer stars.

“What we do is we have like this Golden Boot contest. You know like the World Cup?” Dan says. “Whoever scores the most goals in the tournament wins the Golden Boot. So we have the Wooden Spoon. Which means, by the time you walk into the bar you say goodbye to each other and head to the girls—”

Chris neatly segues into a story that explains how they create college orgies. “We were in Panama City for spring break. We meet one of these girls from Mississippi. She doesn’t have the best face. But she’s got huge breasts. We take her back to the room at about twelve o’clock night. At this point we don’t know if she’s down for threesomes or not. So, I say, ‘I’ll tell you what, babe—it’s all about you tonight. It’s all about you.’ We both start kissing her. Danny’s sitting on the other side of her. And so, when he puts his hand downstairs, my hand is already there.”

“At this point, we know – she’s a slut,” Dan says.

“Within a few minutes, she’s sucking him off,” Chris finishes the story. “And then, I sort of guide her head over so she starts sucking me off. I’ve got hold of her hair, right? While she’s sucking me off, she just looks up—and I really have to hand it to her, she went up in my esteem immeasurably for this line—she looks up says, ‘I thought it was all about me tonight.’”

Everyone at the table laughs. We’ve begun to draw attention to ourselves. This seems to happen wherever these guys go.

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If anyone is a slut, it’s these guys. And even they don’t fully seem to get that that’s the next layer of their appeal, after the accents and the confidence.

Yes, my ears pricked up at their use of such an outdated and sexist term like slut. Really, if anyone is a slut, it’s these guys. And even they don’t fully seem to get that that’s the next layer of their appeal, after the accents and the confidence. Chris may not have meant it when he said, “It’s all about you tonight,” but that doesn’t matter as much as the fact she acted like it was true. She felt free to get hers because Chris was right. It was all about her that night. At least, in her mind it was. She got what she wanted. She used them like the sluts they are. And it turns out what she wanted was eight guys to fuck her in one night.

“By the end of the night, all eight of us have… made love to her,” Chris says, a mix of pride and a sensitivity to see how I’ll react. “And the next day, we’re going home to London, right? While we were at the airport we Snapchatted a pic to this bird. It’s of all of us pointing at the camera. We’re hoping that she didn’t regret her night. And this bird, she sends us back a picture that says, ‘Can we go again?’”

To prove his story is true, Chris pulls out his phone and shows me the snaps of the guys and then the one from her. It indeed says: “Can we go again?”

“Do you guys always use condoms?” I ask.

Carl is first to answer, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Dan gives the same “Yeah, you have to.” And once again, Chris is honest, “Most of the times.”

Dan attempts to correct the record, “In America, it’s great. It’s like American girls are really hot on it. Which is great. They don’t make you do it. Obviously, you do it if you’re a man. If you’re going out without a condom, you’re going out with a locked pistol. You have a gun, but you can’t load any bullets in the chamber.”


Listening to Dan, Chris and Carl’s stories, for them, having an accent is like Dumbo’s feather. It’s what convinces them they can fly. Their accent has no inherent magic. But it gives them the confidence to act in ways they would not otherwise.

“This goes for all of us, but—if I’m in London, and I see an amazing girl, I know I have no chance with her,” Chris says. “So, I’m not going to go up and speak to her. But in America, my confidence is at its limit. I’m talking in the middle of the day, stone sober, I’ll go up to any woman. It’s like I’m hiding behind the accent. I don’t know if that’s psychology or what. But I have no qualms going up to any girl, any place in America and say to her, ‘I think you’re really good-looking. What’s your name?’ Like, no qualms. In England, even on a night out, I’m not doing that. But in America, even if it’s the day, I have no limits on who I’m willing to approach.”

Everyone laughs at his honesty. But what Chris just told me is a secret that most men always overlook. Women love confidence. And the reason why is for a woman it’s important, in my experience, that she feels comfortable. That’s really the first step in her arousal. If she feels safe and comfortable, she’ll follow those impulses her body starts feeling. She’ll open up to possibilities. And that’s how two nice girls from Athens, Ga., wind up having group sex with a pair of Brits. The confidence lets them know they’re in good and competent hands. They can go with the flow and enjoy what they choose to enjoy.

Dan jumps in to add his opinion. “You know you’re never going to get a ‘fuck off.’ The only time you’re going to get a ‘fuck off’ is if you’re trying to approach a 10. I know I’m never going to fuck a 10. But last time in Auburn, Chris fucked two nine-and-a-halves.”

Chris remembers the girls, “Lovely.”

“We’ve tag-teamed like eights. And you’re like, ‘What are they doing?’” Dan says, flabbergasted at his own good fortune. “They must have every guy in the college after them. And they choose to get double-teamed by two English dickheads they met an hour ago? You think, ‘They’ve got to love this to some extent.’”

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They have an act, a mask that protects them from the regular sting of embarrassment or rejection. But they don’t seem to fully understand why everything works so well for them in America.

It’s now clear to me. These guys are cunning, but they’re not very calculating. They’ve figured out tactics that work for them. They have a magic feather that convinces them they can do amazing things. And they have an act, a mask that protects them from the regular sting of embarrassment or rejection. But they don’t seem to fully understand why everything works so well for them in America. At least, beyond the obviousness of their accent and those clear differences between them and bros with backward ball caps.

Listening to their many stories of smashing birds, I hear a pattern. They’re so busy enjoying their own fantasies they don’t seem to fully see what effect they’re having on women’s fantasies. They trigger a woman’s deep erotic desires. And then give her the chance to step outside of her normal life and live out what she imagines. It’s like they say to women, “Tonight, I’ll be whatever you want. Tonight, I’ll be your fantasy. Tonight, it’s all about you.”

This flip of the normal sexual dynamic arouses female sexuality in a way that means women get to be aggressive. Women get to fulfill the fantasy of having group sex, if that’s what they want. In case you didn’t know this – newsflash – women are just as lusty as men. And some of them also fantasize about group sex. They also want to get freaky. But rarely does a woman get to feel comfortable enough or safe enough with a man she’s just met that she gets to act on her fantasies. Perhaps these seemingly safe British rogues, these weekend princes, they let women feel comfortable to act out their fantasies. I explain all of this to the guys and realize the pints are starting to catch up with me.

Dan gets it. “It’s the power of fantasy, isn’t it? Movie stars always fuck models. Movie stars fuck girls civilians can’t fuck. We have that power but on a much lower level. You’re going into places, and the women don’t realize we have that power of the fantasy working for us.”

Kind of. That’s the part that works for them. But as far as female sexuality, he’s also right that the fantasy the Brits provide is why they fuck so much. Speaking of which, Brittina the porn star, has arrived. She’s just as busty and blonde and unapologetically sexy as I’d hope she’d be.

We all stand when she draws near to our table. She tells us how she’s no longer living with Ron Jeremy. She has her own place, which she prefers. As she talks about the mundane aspects of her life I marvel at the fact – here is a woman who’s paid to provide the world erotic fantasies, but when she’s not working she can’t wait to have her way with these British guys. It’s as obvious as chocolate syrup on a wedding dress: she wants them inside of her as soon as possible. She’s already in the foreplay of her own sexual fantasy. These guys are the objects of her lust. And I’m not sure they fully get that, even if they benefit from it.

Chris asks Brittina, “Can I tell you a story, love? I’m in sales in London. So, I was on the tube, headed into work, right? I’m miserable because I didn’t get to go on my little holiday.”

Dan adds an important detail, “He’s the one who missed coming out to LA last time.”

“While you were all here in L.A. with a beautiful porn star, I’m back on my shitty commute in London,” Chris says, his voice growing irritated and tight. “I get this message from Danny. I’m like, ‘Oh, what does he want?’ So, I open it and I watch this video… of you giving him head. And the message is: ‘Archie (a nickname for Chris), mate, look at what you’re missing out on.’”

Brittina laughs loudest and hardest. She’s quite proud. Brittina is used to being someone else’s fantasy. And tonight, she’s just as eager to be the star of her own. As Chris puts away his phone she smiles at Dan with a wicked grin.

We finish our drinks. They ask where to go tonight. I suggest they hit up Project Club on Hollywood. Just days before Rihanna had to be evacuated from the nightclub after there was a shooting. Should be lively. As everyone gets ready to leave I ask Brittina what she likes about these guys, and she keeps her answer simple, “They’re sexy.”

Hard to argue with that logic.

I tell Dan I’ll see them in San Diego for New Year’s Eve. But I warn them. I’ve invited a friend of mine to join us. Crissy, she’s a writer from Vice. I want to see what a smart, opinionated young woman from New Jersey makes of these guys. It’s only fair to warn them that she may not be as kind in her assessment of what they do. Women don’t typically warm up to men who are known sex tourists.


Pushing through the thick holiday traffic, Crissy and I drive to San Diego. She pitched the story to her editors, and now she wants to get a sense of what these British guys are like. But I don’t want to color her opinion of them so I just say I find them fascinating. What I don’t say is that they’ve cracked the code for how to best benefit from the recent shifts in the culture of casual sex. I don’t want to bias her because I really want to know what a woman thinks of them.

It’s still early when we meet them at the first bar. Crissy is immediately the focus of the lads’ attention. While they get to know each other, I step outside and speak with Katie. She’s one of the two young women that Dan invited to join them and celebrate New Year’s Eve. They drove out from Arizona. That’s five hours of driving. That tells me two things: either the fantasy is really that strong or there is something very real occurring.

Katie has a master’s degree from Oxford. I keep this in mind as I ask her how she met the Brits and why she drove five hours across a desert to see them.

“I met them in Arizona,” she says. “We were just at a bar, and they came up to us and told us they wanted to party and we were down so…”

“When you saw them was it like you saw a fantasy appear right in front of you, like this bunch of good-looking British guys—” I ask, but she interrupts me.

“No,” Katie is matter-of-fact. “Because I’ve dated an Italian for two-and-a-half years.”

“Oh, so the fantasy of some handsome international guy…”

“Not so much.”

Here’s an American woman resistant to their immediate charms, a woman immune to the whole rom-com “Love, Actually” fantasy, a woman for whom a British guy is nothing special. Then why would she drive five hours to see Dan again?

“Most American girls tend to freak out about foreign guys. But not me,” Katie says with a flat affect like someone talking about what types of socks she prefers as gifts.

“So, then, what did it for you?” I ask.

“Nothing, actually,” Katie says, still terribly flat, as if she herself doesn’t know why she’s come to San Diego. “I guess, Dan is very confident, persistent—that’s what caught my eye. He’s very nice. Foreign guys are cool, but they’re not going to catch my attention.”

“When Dan was so persistent, was that somehow like a subtle compliment? Like, out of all the girls in America he could be with, all the girls who are so clearly drawn to him, he pursues you. Did that do it for you?” I ask Katie, hoping to draw out a more meaningful answer.

“No,” she says, slamming the door on that idea.

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“So what about Dan did it for you?” I want to hear it in her own words and not guess.

“He’s genuinely a nice guy. He’s really funny, has a good personality. He’s smart and good-looking. Great body, too.”

“OK, so he’s a good package. The Brits tend to rate American girls. So, if you were to rate him on a scale of one to ten, what would you rate him? Is he an 8, is he a 9, maybe, he’s a 7?”

“For most girls they’d factor in that British accent, and he’s got a good job. He’s doing well. I’d rate him a 10.”

“Whoa!” I say, genuinely surprised to hear her answer. “And once you guys got naked, would you still rate him as a 10? Did he live up to your expectations in bed?”

“Yes, he lived up to my expectations. Very much so,” Katie says, with a coy laugh. “He’s generous. He knows who he is. He knows what he wants.”

“Would you say his confidence makes you trust him? Like, you feel comfortable with him. Which means you can sort of relax and be like, ‘We’re going to have some fun.’ Is that accurate?” I ask.

“Yes. Dan definitely knows what he wants and what he’s going to get. That’s the kind of guy he is.”

“When you two were together, were there other guys in the same hotel room having sex at the same time?”

“Not with me. No.”

“It was just you two. No one else nearby doing their thing?”

“No.”

“Earlier you said that you wanted to have fun. They wanted to party. Was it all just a momentary thing? A passing fantasy? Or did part of you think it might lead to something more? Did you imagine a future with Dan?” I ask, hoping not to sound skeptical of it myself.

“This is so embarrassing. I dated someone before, and he was Italian. I’d just broken up with him like two months before and it was yeah… Like, I’m sure Dan’s this way with a lot of girls he’s with when he comes to the U.S. Because he comes here a lot. So, I don’t feel special at all. But it helped me with my relationship. When I got out of my relationship he was very nice, passionate. He showed me the good things about myself.”

Katie’s answer is far sweeter and more pained than I’d expected. But it’s equally encouraging to hear that some casual sex with one of the British lads not only gave her some momentary thrills, it also helped her heart heal. Casual sex can mean so many different things.

“And you don’t get jealous or possessive? You don’t care that these guys are—”

“With a bunch of girls? No, it really doesn’t bother me. Maybe most women in the U.S. might feel that way. They want what others have or desire—but because of my ex, the Italian, I wasn’t looking to get with any new foreigners. And I feel like for these guys that’s their ‘in.’ But, like I said, I didn’t want anything to do with Dan. For, like, the first two hours,” Katie laughs at herself. “But he was just really nice and persistent. And he made me feel nice. I didn’t care that he’s with other women or whatever. I figured he does that. He was the first guy I’d hooked up with in two years.”

“And now you just drove five hours from Arizona on New Year’s Eve to be with him. If you haven’t noticed, as some women tell me, dick is abundant and of low value. But apparently, this is different. So were you excited the whole five hours, looking forward to seeing Dan again?”

“I was excited for like the first three-and-a-half,” Katie laughs again. She has a very friendly, happy laugh. “After that, I was like, I just want to get there. And I started going like 115 in my Mini Cooper.” She laughs yet again.

“Are you prepared to keep any other girls off him to make sure you end up with him tonight?” I ask.

Katie looks me in the eye, for a long moment, “Um, kind of. But, no. Not really. I’m not afraid of those other girls. I’m going to let him do what he wants. I’m going to do what I want.”

This is the part about female sexuality most folks still seem to fail to understand. A woman has her own desires. She isn’t just waiting to make a man feel good. She has her own agenda. And these days, she has the opportunity to satisfy her desires.


It’s a couple of hours before midnight so we head to the Omnia – the hottest nightclub in San Diego. Chris has reserved a bottle service table that costs $1,500 for the night. Crissy from Vice has already grown quite charmed with the Brits. So much for that. She’s smitten with their mate Will, who’s just joined us. He’s here in America for his first sex tour. Thanks to his winking charm it seems like my friend the Jersey girl is just as eager to start entertaining fantasies of how she’d like to start the New Year enjoying this relentlessly appealing, inexhaustible supply of weekend princes.

The guys split up. Chris is the loudest and most willing to go up and speak with any woman he finds attractive. Dan speaks in low tones with Katie. They’re enjoying their own moment, in the middle of this nightclub. I’m stoked for Katie. Meanwhile Carl splits his time between romancing Jené, Katie’s cute friend who came with her, and wandering off to flirt with the women who are constantly drawn to the accents. It’s not a small Southern college town, as both Chris and Dan are quick to point out, but the guys are doing pretty well for themselves, and it looks like no bed will be empty tonight.

As we all get drunk Dan and Chris seem worried that I’ll report that women aren’t flocking to them in San Diego the way they do in Tuscaloosa or Auburn. I tell them I expected that. Then I tell them my secret – the reason why I can relate to their tactics and appeal.

“Look, I don’t have a sexy British accent,” I tell them. “But I used to have dreadlocks down to my ass. Basically, I looked so much like Bob Marley that when women approached me in a bar it was clear they were already getting wet from the fever of their own fantasy. It had almost nothing to do with me. All I had to do was not fuck it up when I opened my mouth. And as long as I did that I enjoyed a ton of casual sex. Why? Not because I looked like Bob Marley. It’s because I was willing to allow myself to be the subject of female fantasies. And because I was confident it worked—just like you guys. I learned if you can make a woman comfortable, if you pay attention to her erotic rhythms as much as your own, if you tease her sexual imagination, if she feels comfortable with you because you know what you want, she then feels free to release her pentup lust. You do that, and you will fuck a lot more often. Simple as that.”

Illustration by Sean Noyce; Photo:  © 68/Burke/Triolo Productions/Ocean/Corbis

Illustration by Sean Noyce; Photo: © 68/Burke/Triolo Productions/Ocean/Corbis

On some level, I had known that. But it took me spending time with these guys to see it all so clearly.

Dan and Chris nod and grin and then go off to find new women to tease with their British accents. I sit down on the couch and pour myself a drink. Jené’s next to me. On her other side Carl sits with a cocktail. The sexually permissive attitude of the Brits creates a vibe. It’s so strong you can practically see it like mist. A sexy London fog wherein it feels like anything can happen. And it does. Jené kisses me. I don’t expect it. But now it’s happening. Her lips are soft, her tongue is hot, and she slides it around in my mouth like a tango dancer, graceful and sexy.

What am I doing? I pull back from her. I immediately see Carl, just over her shoulder. He stares at me. He’s not pissed. Instead, he smiles and nods. He tells me it’s cool and to keep at it. Jené wants to, so we kiss more. She bites my lips. I feel her lust start to catch fire. I like how she’s a voracious kisser. She’s the kind of woman who puts her whole body into it. Her teeth tear the skin of my lips like a hungry vampire. But in this fleeting fantasy moment, even the pain feels sexy. Then someone kicks me.

It’s the writer from Vice. Crissy seems to think it’s unprofessional of me to kiss someone in the story I’m writing. I wave her off. I return to Jené’s eager lips.

Crissy kicks me a second time. What is it now? I think. She mouths the words, “Stop it.”

I check back with Carl. He’s still grinning and nodding. I don’t see what the trouble is.

Trusting that Crissy sees or knows something I don’t, I stand up and thank her for looking out for me. As I clear my head, I flirt with one of the beautiful women drawn to the table of charming British guys. But when she hears I’m not British she looks disappointed. I’m not part of her fantasy. She wants someone else swimming around in this floating pool party of sexiness.

After midnight the lads each take a girl home.

If you’re wondering, Dan takes Katie back to the hotel. The two of them enjoy the first hours of the new year together naked.

Carl takes Jené back to the hotel. And no, I didn’t go back to their room with them. Why would I? I wasn’t planning on fucking them. Like, what would I do, be the weird journalist taking notes while they fucked?

I don’t know what exactly happened between Crissy and Will. I can only report what I saw with my own eyes. For her side of the story you’ll have to read the piece she wrote for Vice.

On the first day of 2016 I wake up in a hotel room in San Diego in a way no person ever should: with a writer from Vice and a British sex tourist standing over me, him telling me he’s late for his flight. As they flee I mostly focus on the fact I have a headache that feels like Brock Lesnar used my head to drive nails the night before. I spent the last night of 2015 watching these English dudes flip sexuality and hookup culture on its head. The lessons you and I can learn from Dan, Chris and Carl, these lessons aren’t just for guys. They’re good for men and and women, Brits and Americans. Who knows? Maybe these lessons in confidence, fantasy and arousal we gather from their example can help make our world a sexier place in 2016.


Zaron Burnett is Playboy’s roving correspondent. Follow him on Twitter: Zaron3.

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