This Book Is Mental
I’ve seen this book gaining traction over the past few weeks, and initially, I wasn’t intrigued. But the chatter on social media was relentless, everyone was talking about it, from groups to pages. Someone even claimed it was life-altering, as if it were a miracle skincare product rather than a guy detailing how he performs oral sex for five hours. At first, I thought the book was targeted at women due to its title featuring ‘Princess.’ The buzz suggested it was about receiving rather than giving, so I decided to buy it. However, upon cracking it open, I realised it’s written by a guy for guys, discussing what they should do to women. After a few chapters, my annoyance began to take root.
To clarify, I identify as straight. I enjoy men, and I’m very much attracted to them, hence, the idea of going down on a woman is far from appealing unless I was in an extreme situation, like someone holding me at gunpoint or offering a million pounds on the spot. I possess a vagina, and I’m well aware of how they function, they require care, are wet and complex, and can behave unpredictably. I certainly don’t need someone on the internet explaining its workings as if they’ve been holed up with a whiteboard for too long.
Since I had already invested money in this book, I felt compelled to finish it primarily out of principle. That’s what I told myself on page twenty when I still thought it was preposterous.
The origin story is quite a lot
He starts by recounting his life story. There’s a backdrop of hospital security, he stands six foot three, has a past as a doorman, and a girlfriend he calls Shrek. His best friend is named Judas, and he’s wrestling with some debt, even retrieving credit card junk mail from the trash. At one point, there’s a goodbye note stating the sex was ‘out of this world.’ Sitting on my couch, I thought this is a heavy setup for a book centred around oral sex.
I don’t dispute that people experience betrayal from those they care about, I’ve seen enough guys go silent after a raucous night to know betrayal is universal, regardless of cinematic budget. Still, there are jokes about Dunkirk, and how lesbian room mates schooled him in sex voodoo during college, alongside an unfinished degree in Sexual Sciences. He recollects a night out at Passions with Jack Daniels and a girl from school in the back of a cab, claiming they wrecked his flat without ever actually sleeping together. I raised an eyebrow at that, not because I think he’s fibbing, but because his self-assuredness is remarkable. He writes like a man constructing his own history as he recalls it, now dishing out the how-to guide.
Then he touches on social media, dubbing it a twist he didn’t expect. His purpose in writing the book is so every guy can emulate his approach, diminishing his own uniqueness in the process. And that’s fine, a clever line, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just a guy grappling with his public identity.
It’s not a book meant for me, but then it is.
He suggests that if a girl is reading this, he’s uncertain why she would be. That line alone probably should have prompted me to close the book, but I persisted, jaw clenched, as if I were noting down a delivery that appeared off-kilter on purpose.
The crux of it revolves around what he terms the Princess Mindset and the Focused Pleasure Hypothesis, abbreviated as FPH. He contends that guys need to abandon the idea of sex as a race to their own finale and instead shift their focus towards creating tension instead of merely expending energy. The woman isn’t required to reciprocate immediately; there’s no pressure to perform, no obligation to match his efforts, and definitely no more of that cringeworthy habit of critically evaluating oneself from an external viewpoint. Oh, am I familiar with that routine, I catch myself doing it in mirrors, cabs, and every time a guy goes quiet after we’ve had sex.
According to him, when she recognises she doesn’t have to return the favour immediately, her nervous system transitions from performing to simply receiving. It’s about feeling secure, granting herself permission, and remaining present, knowing she is the chosen one. As I read that, I felt compelled to disagree. But I also mulled over the last time a guy genuinely lingered after I achieved my own release. Not rolled over or queried if it was satisfactory like he was checking off a checklist, but truly stayed connected and present. I can count those occurrences on one hand, leaving plenty of fingers left for my credit card.
At that moment, my annoyance began intertwining with something else, and to be honest, I wasn’t thrilled about that.
Five hours? That’s quite the commitment
He’s not just referring to a casual twenty minutes, he’s advocating for a solid baseline of three hundred minutes, five hours, consisting of structured segments responsive to his pre-meeting questions. In his mind, it’s five hours as long as she doesn’t cut it short or feel overwhelmed. If she runs out of steam, he considers it still a success.
I burst out laughing in my kitchen when I heard this. One of my flatmates caught on and asked what I found so amusing. I simply said, ‘Nothing,’ refusing to explain while I waited for the kettle to boil.
He adamantly insists that in FPH, sex becomes pointless. Surrender your ego; the session wraps only when she declares it is over. She calls the shots. He contains his desire within reason, maintaining control over his feelings. She knows he finds her desirable, and therein lies the captivating element, she gets to relish feeling desired without any obligation to fulfil that desire. I’ve spent countless nights honing in on the service aspect, thriving in it too. Yet, I also know it can sometimes be less complicated to focus on that rather than asking for the intimacy inherent to being held.
Reading a male instructing other men to willingly frustrate themselves so she remains engaged struck a nerve. I shifted on my couch, telling myself it was just the heating.
The secrecy chapter is arguably the most mature part of the book.
Before delving into the explicit experiences, he emphasises discretion. Contracts? Absolutely. Staying discreet? Definitely. She can share the encounters within her circle, but he cannot. Even if she ends up venting her adventures in a meme or pouring out her heart to the nursing station, his responsibility is to keep it all confidential.
Honestly, I respect that more than the entire mythology that seems to orbit sex. Gossip pervades our lives, I share walls and stories with two folks who, believe me, have heard me through these very walls. Still, I wouldn’t want my love life transformed into someone else’s narrative. The way he writes about relationships fosters an unsettling echo of escort dynamics, even when he discusses girlfriends or friends. It churns my stomach slightly. Yet, when reflecting on the men I know, many can’t even keep a Tuesday night a secret. He claims to possess the emotional intelligence akin to Fort Knox, a notion that made my eyes roll. Still, I took a mental note, regardless.
The meet-up section made me feel warm
He predicts she’ll arrive early, perhaps two or even three hours beforehand. The music is playing, the TV is on, and she’s done her hair and makeup to perfection. He identifies this as a portrait moment, a description I’d agree with completely. She yearns for him to notice her beauty before a shower washes it all away. Later, she might now even lie, claiming she had just shown up.
I understand that kind of deception; I’ve told my own variations. And indeed, once again, he’s right. I’ve often spent ages in bathrooms redoing makeup, wanting the night to hold the evidence of my beauty before the messy, tired version takes centre stage. It’s frustratingly accurate when a man keenly recognises that dynamic without it coming off as sweet.
Don’t initiate kissing at the door. Reserve the first kiss for when she truly needs it, not when she expects it. Hang back, smile, and assure her her reward awaits when she’s ready. Then, send her off to shower. If you hear her entertaining herself, it’s okay to linger in the bathroom and brush your teeth. Let her simmer.
I put the book down and headed towards the fridge for a snack. Upon my return, my cheeks were flushed, not out of embarrassment, but because the scenario had struck a chord that I hadn’t consented to feel.
He denotes that she’ll try to break him. She craves him physically yet is reluctant to witness it. She wishes the rumors were fictitious while simultaneously hoping they hold truth. That phrase lingered in my thoughts. I’ve danced around that very idea, wanting a guy to prove he’s not going to hastily claim satisfaction for himself. Longing for him to err so I can maintain control, yet wishing he’ll succeed so I can relax.
Teasing is a full-time job
This isn’t merely about physicality; it’s far from being a simple massage, and he bothers me with it at times. He argues that massages are intended to aid her relaxation, while he prefers to keep her on the edge. It centres around the oil and maintaining a slow cadence, initiating with her shoulders. He must treat her hands with consideration, as if they truly matter. The fingertip navigation feels almost laughable, particularly as the clit seems to take notes. Those inadvertent brushes? They cease being accidental eventually, but the moment she begins anticipating them, he intentionally backs off.
He avoids the nipples until the areola seems to be screaming for acknowledgement, abstaining from any touches down below until she’s practically begging. A single breath hovers above it, but gratification will not occur immediately. Instead, he diverts back to her lips, leading into something he describes as Feeding the Horse, a term so ridiculous I couldn’t help but mock it aloud, yet I kept reading regardless.
The initial touch synchronises with her exhale, a moment suspended in time. Should she enjoy an instant orgasm, he labels it an emotional release she ignited herself while he merely facilitates. It’s overwhelmingly clinical, leaving me cringing while subconsciously crossing my legs.
I know my body well. I know the contrasts between those who rush intimacy and those who don’t. I recognise how it feels when oral is treated merely as a precursor to the actual event. Perhaps you get a brief five minutes if you’re lucky, then the moment the penis intrudes, it’s as if it’s performing a great service. But this book flips that assumption entirely, morphing it into a challenge.
Bondage without the costume shop
He notes that many women classify their desires as BDSM when, in reality, they only crave the sensation of their wrists being enveloped. It’s more about relinquishing control within a fantasy rather than engaging in anything painful. The thought struck me harder than the idea of actual restraints.
I oversee a warehouse, managing analytics and schedules while presenting an image of success. The prospect of indulging in a period where I am wholly unable to perform anything feels exceedingly appealing, and that doesn’t even require ropes. He elaborates on heart rates, endorphins, and that dizzying sensation resembling tipsiness without alcohol. While I’ve never been physically restrained, the wish for a type of intimacy devoid of performance pressure gnaws at me.
He also finds the concept of ‘locking feet’ appealing, relishing the idea that some women might bend the rules to steal in a little foot interaction. That amused me, but it also prompted me to contemplate my own limits. If someone denied me something, I’d likely pursue it even harder. I’m not pious simply because I find something stimulating.
The discussion of kissing did not benefit me in the least.
He emphasises that men often minimise the significance of kissing since we engage in it with family, but for women, it conveys a whole language. It hinges on presence and patience, on whether there’s genuine engagement. He postpones the initial kiss, converting it into an unexpected spark rather than a standard greeting.
I’ve ended evenings with men capable of handling sex but deficient in their kissing prowess, ultimately packing up after impressive intimacy due to kissing feeling like a chore. Reading his perspective on training men to breathe intentionality into their kisses should feel pompous, yet it was also the first time I thought, ‘Wow, he’s genuinely attentive.’
You only kiss as well as your last partner. It’s a cruel truth, and I’ve inadvertently dragged past partners’ habits into new relationships, and so have the men I’ve encountered. The idea that someone could discern and adjust instead of merely tolerating it struck me as oddly intimate in a way the entire five-hour oral challenge failed to achieve, which is both preposterous and deeply resonant.
Then the book ventured into explicit territory, and I ceased my pretence of superiority.
Post that point, a detailed layout of various orgasms unfolds, he even coins one the ‘gigasm’ preserved for the peak climax as allowing it out prematurely renders all else insignificant. Footgasms, nipplegasms, even a breakdown of varying positions and techniques. While I won’t rehash his diagrams, he constructed a comprehensive manual. Purchase it if você wish to grasp all the specifics.
What I will articulate is this: I approached the book using derogatory terms for my anatomy, feigning confidence, but that was merely a self-defense mechanism. I recognize my preferences. I appreciate both the raw and the tender. I drift away when my partner lapses into silence, finding it easier to climax when I’m not feigning—this book ensures she doesn’t need to pretend. It zeroes in on the two ideas of time and that she doesn’t owe her release to mastering his gratification first.
By the time I reached the midpoint, I was tucked in bed with my door half-closed, a flatmate in the bathroom, and I was practically soaked—not in some poetic sense, but irritably, overstimulated. I aimed to critique it but my body echoed the author’s sentiments. I’d laid down my phone, only to impulsively pick it up again, rereading sections, especially those discussing her performance, which led to the tension being released—she writhed like she was on the big screen, inhibitions all tucked away. I despised that he articulated it, yet I believed it. I could feel my own pulse thudding in a way unrelated to literary analysis.
There’s undeniable cruelty in deliberate prolonged teasing, but it harbours a special sort of indulgence. For years, I have been the one who articulates what she desires. This book circumscribes a realm where I wouldn’t need to lead. That notion struck a chord. I felt the restlessness permeate me, almost compelling me to message someone I shouldn’t. But I refrained, yet my decision to continue reading felt like an even more disheartening choice.
What I still find problematic
He generalises women as if we possess a singular nervous system yet present ourselves in varying attire. Men are logical; women are emotional, it feels reminiscent of our cave days, complex beings tangled in frustrations. I navigate logical dynamics during my work, balancing professionalism by day, releasing at night. I’ve been with countless guys wielding emotional depth masked beneath humour until they fell silent completely.
Sure, the escort narrative may alienate a segment of readers, and it rightfully deserves mention. This isn’t just some boyfriend’s how-to. His conversation about clients, contracts, and the assertion of hotels anonymizing transactions for a supposed leaving party paint a stark picture. If you’re seeking a whimsical romantic journey, this isn’t it. If you fancy a guy who feels he can revamp others’ average love lives via his attentiveness, this aligns perfectly. He even states that rumors circulate about him sabotaging women’s sex lives with their partners, touching on two cases of impending lawsuits, which unfolded on Facebook. I can’t substantiate that, but there’s an unmistakable aura of someone who thrives on being audacious.
The tone oscillates between therapeutic discussions and locker-room dialogues within the same page. Terms like ‘Princess,’ ‘pussy worship,’ and ‘sexual servant’ feel drawn from a Mills and Boon novel, yet flip to colloquialisms about goats and newspapers when discussing men’s ease in reaching orgasm. That contrast is deliberately jolting, urging us to acknowledge that satisfying a man isn’t some monumental triumph. While that’s accurate, he needn’t pair it with livestock references.
Additionally, this shouldn’t serve as a means to neglect what she genuinely conveys. He advises men to embellish memorable nights armed with little gestures, which is sound advice. But he also comes across as perceiving the entire process as overly mechanical, preaching that if she kisses you too soon, it will spell doom. Having a game plan is thrilling until it deteriorates into rigidity. Should I find myself in such a situation where script outweighs genuine connection, my interest would fade fast, making it his dilemma instead.
What I can’t shake away
The Princess Mindset is almost a kitschy term for a notion I’ve yearned for but lacked the language for. I desire to be desired even after the urgency has faded, not merely during the functional moment. I crave active communication throughout the experience. I desire a partner who values my pleasure over a mere checkbox to tick off before reaching his own. I’m all for languid mornings rather than keeping score. This book takes those inclinations and morphs them into an unduly lengthy convoluted five-hour ordeal marked by oil, regulations, and a man who doesn’t get to climax.
Is engaging in this weekly plausible? Certainly not. The author elaborates that even twice a week is excessive. Ideally, doing it once a month allows her time for recuperation. He refers to that post-session emotional struggle as ‘orgasm guilt’, leave it. Don’t preoccupy her by endlessly asking about the experience. If she reaches out, then you can reassess. That level of restraint might extend from wisdom or simply astute marketing. Perhaps it’s a combination of the two.
I concluded the final pages while locked in the bathroom, using the fan to mask my extended silence. Gazing into the mirror, I wore my routine confident expression usually reserved for Fridays. All set to face the world, but it was merely a façade. Beneath, I was a beautifully chaotic mess. This reading emanated mixed emotions within me, not because I wish to replicate these methods on another woman, but rather because it conjured up thoughts of that man I visualise alongside in those very scenes.
That perspective might not align with a typical manual approach, but it resonated with me, and I sensed it deeply by the final page of the book.
So, I dropped him an email
I intended to draft a tidy review. Truth be told, I accidentally bought the book; it wasn’t particularly suited for me. While some segments piqued my interest, I considered a two-star rating. But somehow, I found myself perched on the edge of my bed, still in my shoes from a previous night, typing away.
scottluciusfph@hotmail.com
I noted how wild the book was and how I bought it after hearing about it from women in my circle, thinking it would resonate with me. I clarified that I’m straight but read the book in its entirety. I aimed to propose an interview, not a session but an interview. This fellow is incredibly intriguing in an unforgettable manner, and I aimed to discern the blend of skill and unresolved wounds he’s transmuted into marketable insights. I was utterly resolute in this intent yesterday. Today, the idea of merely asking a few casual questions feels reasonable, yet I’m half-kidding; the more I ruminate, the more it evolves into a genuine prospect.
I’m ceaselessly pondering what he can achieve, not some fantasy like booking a hotel stay, but a question lingering in my mind. What happens to a woman used to leading when a man inverts that dynamic? What of the men who consume this advice yet can barely extend past four minutes? And what of me right now, aware this book lies on my floor as my body makes its choice?
I embarked on this review equipped to dismiss everything entirely as absurd. Yet here I am, feeling provoked, impatient, and on the lookout for a response. If that’s not the most authentic review I could compose, I genuinely don’t know what is. The girls weren’t fabricating stories; they just didn’t encompass the panoramic view. This is undoubtedly a guy’s book, yet it still impacted me, that’s the revelation I didn’t see coming. I need a cold shower. And now I’m actually talking to him, I can feel the pull of doing something really stupid.
