A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist

by Tony D

  This is called State, or, The Zone. It likes to hang out with your ego. It takes many forms, and has many voices. It happens when you play guitar, score a goal, break dance, drop a royal flush, or do anything that you’re good-at-and-you-know-it. The vibration is contagious. It’s like a complete circumference, a fucking rocket ship around the sun, and they—everyone who isn’t you— feel it too.

  This place is so elusive that we leach it off others; the gifted ones, the pretty and strong and clever and fearless. The way to achieve State is by winning—and to win you must play. You can win by reading a good book, cooking a fine meal, listening to a great song, writing a better song, or sucking a titty. Winning is a state of mind, body and soul. And when you trip and fall, you laugh and get up. Buddhists call it, Right Action. Wrong Action is no action… and leaves you drained and empty of inspiration.

  “I like your nose. Can I borrow it?” I reached out and mocked taking her nose, sticking my thumb up between my knuckles and wiggling it.

  “Nooo give it back!” She giggled, grabbing for my hand and pressing her small tits against my arm. I felt the blood rush below. Hello.

  Hey there.

  I was hard and she could probably feel it. For a second I got stressed, but hell, I’m a guy. I’m an animal. A boner is a compliment.

  I was a little nervous but I’d been practicing for a month, so I had an idea of what to do. I didn’t know what to say all the time but I had a concept: Make fun of her, don’t be too eager, be self-amused and outcome independent. It wasn’t noble but it was a start.

  I made sure to hold her hand and stay physical, to look her in the eyes, to tease her, to avoid clichés, to push her away and then pull her in, to play with her emotions, and avoid logic, to speak louder in a more masculine tone. It worked and she liked me.

  “What’s your number? We can hang out,” I asked.

  “Ok,” she said, and gave me her number. Just like that. I’m a Spartan warrior; I’m Genghis Khan’s sweaty, world conquering balls. My first solid phone number in two years, from a real beauty. Outside, peering through the glass was an old man leaning on his easy-walker; he just stood there all gums and wrinkles, grinning at us. I wondered how many women he had been with.

  I left her and helped my band pack up the gear. When I finished I walked back in to get a beer. Then I saw Esther, that elf, in the corner of the bar, talking, laughing, hugging, and then French-kissing a scrubby looking hipster kid. Yes, they were French-kissing. Damn. So that’s how it goes. Lesson learned. Once you have her, keep her. It’s ok, I thought, wrestling with my jealousy. I had the number and I could try again later. I got a beer, then another. I watched them from the bar. I squeezed my mug and considered smashing it in his stupid face, but I’m supposed to be positive, abundant, and besides—I’m a pacifist. Good for him then, I thought. I just needed to go further next time. I’m still too nice. Far too nice.

  Chapter 4

  Spirituous (Friends?)

  A few days after my gig I went to a local pub with three of my buddies. There were four cute girls sitting ten feet away. I’d been watching them for far too long. I needed to do something.

  “I’m gonna talk to them,” I said.

  “Yeah do it Sebastian!” They cheered.

  I must be a hero. I must have big balls. Suppress the anxiety, don’t focus on it. Focus on moving your feet, opening your mouth, forcing air through your lungs. I approached their table, swung my arms out, and said, “Hey guys, you look like the most fun people in the world!” My hand hit one of the drinks, and it spilled across the table and the booze poured off the sides onto their little feet. The girls screamed and reeled back.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” I said.

  They stared at me. One of them mouthed something but I couldn’t hear her, the dance music was too loud. I might need earplugs next time.

  “Are you nervous?” the small, dimpled one said.

  “No. Well, maybe just a little drunk,” I lied. I wasn’t drunk, not that much. I was very, very nervous.

  I used my arm and with one swoop wiped the liquid onto the floor, real smooth like. My heart was still pounding; I thought it might burst. Their faces would be covered in my gory little chunks and they’d scream and flee the bar.

  “You owe her a Pina Colada,” one girl said.

  I just stood there and smiled at each of them. I was anxious, and if I spoke, then, the words would have been awkward. I took a deep breath to slow my heart rate, and cleared my mind of thought. Even though I ignored her drink order, the girls were surprisingly nice to me. I counted three smiles and one frown. I focused on the one with the biggest smile, the dimpled one.

  “So where are you girls from?” I asked, and then regretted such a cliché question.

  “Umm, Vancouver?” Dimples said.

  “Yeah, obviously, I mean what neighborhood?”

  The brunette flicked her hair over her shoulder, straightened her posture, and said, “Hey bro. You want to know where all of us live. Or just her? You want an address?”

  That was a shit test. I should say something witty, like I don’t mind if she’s a bitch. She just wants to know if I’m going to beat her up during our first argument. It’s a biological defense mechanism. She’s actually nice. Be cool.

  “No, no. I umm…shit. You know lady; it took some balls to come over here.”

  No, no, no. Ughh.

  All I had to do was ignore it, or spin it into something positive, and I failed. That’s ok, I’d learn.

  “Yeah it did! Be nice,” Dimples said. Thank god for Dimples.

  I glanced at my friends; they were wide-eyed, rooting for me. I realized that this was a worthy cause, greater than my lonely penis. I said to the girls, “Look, I’m going to do something you may hate me for, but be positive. I’m introducing my friends to you.”

  The brunette just stared at me, unimpressed. The other girls rolled their eyes.

  I waved at my comrades with a come-hither motion, and they descended like great brutes to a feast. It must have taken them four seconds to move from our table to theirs.

  My first group approach. I was Alexander the Great; I was Keith Richards on smack. I talked with Dimples for a couple of minutes while my friends chatted up the other girls.

  “We should hang out. I’ll take you to my Chateau. What’s your number?” I handed her my phone.

  She looked at me with those big pretty eyes and said, “Sorry, I don’t give my number out at bars.”

  What the hell? This is supposed to work.

  I’d been reading a book called, “The Mystery Method,” written by an old-school pickup artist named Mystery, and he said I should try a back turn—to make them chase me. It means I don’t give a shit, and the girls are supposed to get wet. I saw my chance when another one from the group came off the dance floor and approached me. “Hi! Who are you?” She asked. I slowly turned away and gave her my back. She reached out and grabbed my shoulder. “Hey, Hey?! What’s your name jerk!? What’s his name?”

  Yes. You are Jedi.

  “I can’t tell you,” I said, peeking back over my shoulder. “We would never get along.” That was another pua line. It’s supposed to convey value and make her chase me. It didn’t work.

  “Fine, dick,” she said and walked off.

  Crap, I really did want to get along. Stupid Mystery Method. My friends were buying them shots and hanging off them like lepers, but the girls didn’t look that interested. They were texting and gazing towards the dance floor, and at each other. When girls start eye coding each other, it means the game is about to end, and those boys didn’t have much. They were bragging and over-complimenting, and doing all the things my ebooks told me not to do. Eventually the girls grabbed each other and ran away. My friends patted me on the back. “Bro, that was awesome. You’re the man.”

  “Yeah I got a phone number from the chick with the dimples when you were ignoring the other one,” one of them exclaimed.

  “Fine boys, good job
. Now it’s your turn,” I said, pointing at a group of girls across the bar. I wasn’t ready to give up. I was just getting started.

  “Me?” My friend said, pointing at his chest. “No thanks. I’ll leave that to you. I’m not creepy like that.”

  I’d never considered what I was doing as creepy. I looked at the girls on the dance floor and realized I might have ruined their night. They were just chilling out, and here came this awkward stranger to get in their space and steal their energy. I could be a serial killer. I could be that Bates guy from American Psycho. I might invite them over for drinks, drop a chainsaw on their heads, peel their faces off, sew them to a dogs butt, and fuck it. I’d always been worried about what people thought about me, and to learn pickup I’d have to really not care, not just about what women thought, but my friends and family as well. I wasn’t going to be good at this anytime soon. It was going to be a long hard road of sucking, weirding people out, and sucking some more. I was fine with that. I just wished it was easier.

  I didn’t know yet that certain cities are easier on certain men, certain girls are into certain races, some girls like status and some like comfort, and some are smart and some are stupid, and some are masculine and some feminine. Let them think I’m creepy then. Fuck them. They can live a mediocre life. Mine will be an adventure.

  I said goodbye and went home. If I wanted to get good at this, I would have to either make new friends, or go out alone. My friends were already saying that the pickup stuff was making me weird, and maybe it was. They were judging me, naturally so. They were concerned for my mental stability. Maybe they knew that if I changed, I might not relate to them anymore. They were right.

  One day an acquaintance told me about his trip to Thailand, and how he hooked up with Australian girls, German girls, Swiss girls, and a bunch of local Thai girls. “Dude, Vancouver sucks. People here are cold. You should travel. Go somewhere else, like Thailand.”

  “I can’t afford a trip to Thailand. I don’t make much money.”

  “It’s cheap there.”

  “I’m broke, my hours suck.”

  “Then go to Montreal.”

  “Montreal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s in Montreal?”

  “Man… it’s the promised land. It’s like a chunk of Europe dropped into Canada. Parties, girls.”

  “Yeah?”

  “French girls are beautiful and slutty. Not to mention the music scene is amazing. There are festivals all summer long, and loft parties every night.”

  “Really?” I said, leaning in. “Tell me more.”

  Chapter 5

  Luv (Fight or Flight)

  I drove to Esther’s house in North Vancouver; a safe upper class neighborhood where doctors and lawyers married pretty women and made prettier daughters. Her roommate was out of town so her apartment was the best option. I sang stupid songs on her guitar and we tickled each other. She played the harpsichord and danced around laughing in between riffs. She would make these stupid, fat faces, she called them, by scrunching her chin to her neck and squishing up her jowls. We’d take pictures of each other on her camera, posing with our fat faces. We talked about music because we were both very passionate about that. Mostly we just looked at each other. Finally I kissed her. I actually asked her for permission, “Can I kiss you?” and she laughed.

  “You don’t need to ask, silly. Just do it.”

  Then we did. It was cute and all that. Like bunnies and Unicorns, or a hundred bunnies riding fifty Unicorns. Oh well. Even after reading all that tough guy pua brainwashing, I was still a big softie. But the pickup theory seemed to be working. It got me this far.

  I stayed there until one am, when she politely kicked me out. I didn’t try to sleep with her because that would ruin things, or so I thought back then. This was my pre-disillusionment era, before I battled long bouts of self-inflicted misogyny. If I screwed this up, I’d kick my own nuts. I never considered that maybe she wanted to get laid. Most chicks lose attraction for you if you don’t at least try to bang them. You don’t need to try that hard, just try something, make a move. It shows you’re a real man or something. They’ll deny this usually, but I’ve found most women have no idea what actually turns them on. “He has to be funny!” If I just had to be funny all the time, I’d go out wearing a t-shirt with a dozen fart jokes printed on the front. It’s better to just amuse yourself. Fuck them if they don’t get it. I know I’m funny because I make myself laugh all the time. I laugh reading my own book. Is that weird?

  A week later, we had another date. I picked her up and she brought along her best friend, a tall leggy blond named Alyssa. It was the night before Halloween so we drove around her neighborhood and stole pumpkins off rich people’s lawns, launching them out the window of my van onto the pavement to splatter as we sped into the night. Pure organized chaos—first world fun—driving around with hot girls being crazy.

  At her apartment, we carved the pumpkins. When Esther turned around, Alyssa would give me the eyes. They’re vicious competitors, women.

  “What do you do Sebastian?” Alyssa asked.

  “I hunt seals.”

  “Liar! What do you really do?”

  “I install stereo systems for rich people.”

  “Cool! Do you like it?”

  “Do you like being kicked in the vagina?”

  “Oh yeah. It feels amazing.”

  I poked out one of my pumpkin’s eyes. “I don’t care for it anymore. It sounded cool at first to be a sound techie, or something, but mostly I just pull wires through asbestos filled attics and cut holes in drywall. I hardly ever meet the owners. They’re off selling stocks and killing babies in third world countries.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad. But you don’t like it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” I cut out the mouth. It had one snaggle-tooth. “I’m saving to go to Montreal.”

  “Oh I love Montreal,” Alyssa said.

  Esther peeked up at me from her pumpkin, then looked back down. I hadn’t told her I’d already purchased my ticket. Damn.

  “Montreal is amazing!” Alyssa said. “I went there last year. Are you going to school? What are you going to do there?”

  You’re gonna learn how to be a player and sleep with beautiful French women.

  “I’m going to start a new band, and eat poutine, lots of it.”

  Alyssa wasn’t leaving us alone, and Esther was acting distant, so I went home. This was taking too long. At night, I’d find my thoughts drifting to Esther, her pretty face, her musical voice, her funny stories and how she was small enough to lift off the ground and spin around in my arms. Then I’d tug one off, quietly, so as not to wake the roommates. Always quietly, like a kitten tiptoeing on marshmallows.

  I went to work that week with a new zest. Life was good, I had a hot girl, an upcoming adventure, and I performed better at work so my boss gave me my own assignments, which meant a lot more money, which I needed for Montreal. Everything was coming together until Friday came. I texted Esther—but she didn’t reply. I waited and then texted her two more times, still with no reply. I hate it when women don’t reply to texts. It’s like an emotional vacuum sucking. It drains your energy and crushes your self-esteem. Finally, an agonizing eight hours later she texted me:

  “Sorry Sebastian. I don’t think we can date. You’re really nice. Can we be friends?”

  Friends? No, no, no, no! Where did I fuck this up? Is it because I actually cared? Lesson learned. I texted her back, “Your loss.”

  I thought that learning a little bit about game would solve all my woes. The ebooks told me to be cocky and funny, to not be nice, to not care. So I actually care and I’m actually nice and, again, this is what happens. What a bitch, I thought. I got a bottle of scotch, drank it, and played video games until my eyes crashed down, bloodshot, and I passed out to The Misfits blasting on my stereo, Attitude! You got some fuckin attitude!

  I went throu
gh the motions but the fire sputtered. My friends didn’t want to go out—they hated clubs. Most Fridays they’d stay home to play games and smoke weed. They thought my obsession with women was disturbing. I didn’t have the courage to go out alone yet, and besides, I lived far from any bars or clubs. I was going to be thirty soon. Then what? Move to the suburbs and prepare for retirement? Esther was blowing me off because my game still sucked. This was something I needed to figure out. My fantasies switched from Esther to Montreal.

  A week went by and I was still pissed about getting flaked on by Esther, but I remembered her friend Alyssa flirting with me, so I chatted her up online. I liked her, but not as much as Esther, so I devised a plan. I would get Alyssa into me with my sick game. I know girls talk, a lot. When they get competitive the cat claws unsheathe. I made sure to send two messages a day to Alyssa and allude to a date. It must have worked because one day I got a text from Esther:

  “Will you ask me out already?”

  I laughed and clicked my fingers together like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. “Excellent.” This time I would ravish her proper.

  We met up at her place on Thursday night. We drank a bottle of cheap wine, kissed for a while, made out, and finally I got on top of her. Her skin was amazingly soft. She tasted like cotton candy. I put her hand on my cock and she undid my belt for me. She had a dress, and I made her sit up so I could slide it up and off. Oh dream of dreams, her warm, young, nakedness. I reached down and felt her pussy, it was wet. I put on a condom and slid inside of her. I couldn’t believe I was fucking this pretty young thing. She was moaning in her cute little voice…it was too good. I thrusted about for a minute, and busted a nut. I almost wanted to hate fuck her for making me work this hard. What a bunch of bullshit. All that anticipation and frustration… but it was so worth it. I’d conquered her.

  Good fucking job, mate!

  No worries.

  After we spooned for a bit, I got up and walked around in my boxers. I explored her bookshelf and found The Art of Seduction by Robert Greene, and about a dozen books having to do with relationships, dating, and girl game. And then it hit me—she planned this. She hooked me, then she took it away so that my final conquest would secure my loyalty. It was pua game! She did a takeaway so I’d feel like I’d worked hard for her. She knew that the more we invest, the more we desire to keep our prize. I wanted to own her now. What a smart girl.