by Tony D
“Pardon,” I said. “Je ne parle pas français.”
“Oh, you are very handsome. I would like to buy you a drink.”
What? I almost gawked.
Montreal rules. I’m standing here and this random French girl is pressing her breasts onto my arm and there’s Sarah at the corner bar staring daggers—poison eyes. I wasn’t too worried. I just smiled and waved. If she saw the girl approach me, well I probably looked pretty damn cool. Pre-Selection, baby. I’m the leader of men, and all that. I politely refused the drink.
Sarah had some big native dude with her; he looked like Jacob, the werewolf guy from Twilight. I said, “What’s up?”
He was harmless enough—I mean, he wasn’t trying to bang her, or he already did, so he wouldn’t be a cock-block. We put back a pitcher of draft then bounced to a party about twenty blocks south; a bit of a trek. I didn’t mind, it would give me time to practice my verbal game. Sarah wanted another drink so we dropped into this pool hall and ordered a few Gin n tonics. I went to the can, and when I was done there was a well-dressed man in a blazer and skinny jeans, sporting a curly mustache and a fedora whispering into Sarah’s ear; she was all toothy smiles. He was speaking in French. Not cool. I don’t know French. This guy was a threat to my bang. A real French seducer. I was surprised he wasn’t carrying a baguette.
I’m always a gentleman when it comes to these invaders. My strategy is to invite the cock-block into polite yet well-articulated banter, thus causing him to engage his logic. Men love logic, but nothing shrivels anxious labia like logic.
“Nice to meet you sir,” I said. “What do you do in Montreal?”
He snorted back in a thick accent, “I am ay feelm maker.”
“Non?” I said, caught off guard. This was bad, double-plus bad. He had a cool hobby.
“That’s so interesting,” Sarah said.
Bad-not-good. He didn’t use this story to brag, but instead I did. I brought it up for him. What a smart French bastard, obviously an advanced Dandy. I pulled at my straw and drank my gin.
“What sort of films do you make?” Sarah asked, playing with her hair, which was according to my books, an unconscious sign of attraction. I ordered another drink.
“Mon-Ami I am working on a story about love.” He took a long haul from his cigarette. Sarah’s friend rolled his werewolf eyes; I groaned.
“That’s awesome!” She said.
I didn’t want to seem like a dick; I needed to be abundant. There are many women and the universe will manifest all of my desires. I’d just pretend I was cool. They wouldn’t know I had to approach seventy girls to get this date, or that nine out of ten phone numbers led to nothing. They didn’t know about the deep dark, Mordor-like frustrations I’d endured, or of my glorious success.
“Can I see some of your films?” I asked him, thinking he had no films to see.
“Oh oui, I have eh many of my copies at my house, if you would be caring to watch zem. I also have deh Shiraz, and eh, my bong eh.”
“Oh that sounds fun!” Sarah said with far too much damn enthusiasm.
Why did she even invite me out? Bitch. No, she’s not a bitch. She’s a woman and he’s a new shiny thing. I should beat him right on his stupid face. No, I’m good. I’m a good guy and I don’t care. I’m leading her right to him. This is bad. He may be a Jedi, like myself, or at least force-sensitive.
“Hey bro,” I said, “I really like your Style, it’s a fun Game, you have lots of Mystery.” He blinked a few times, said, “Merci,” and turned back to Sarah. I guessed he wasn’t in the French lair. He must be a natural douche-bag. That’s even worse, I thought. I even liked him. She must love him.
Then, in a flash of brilliance, I came upon my answer. Why resist? Be Zen. Go with the flow.
“Sorry bro but we have to go to this party. Hey, why don’t you come?” I said.
“Well ehhhh, I don’t know ehhh,” he mumbled, taking off his cap to wipe his brow.
“Yea come with us,” Sarah said.
I suppose it was my ego, but I believed I was better. If I gave her every opportunity to go with this guy, would she? Most guys would want to punish him, mock him, fight him. I’d do the opposite. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, so they say. I had a secret. This was an Anglo party, a hipster party, and I knew many of these kids. This guy would be out of his element, and if worse came to worst I could meet some new girls. I’m like a pickup Dick Cheney.
“Ehh, of course I would like to be coming to dis party,” he agreed.
They conversed in French for the remaining ten blocks, so I talked to the Jacob the werewolf.
“I don’t like that sleazy dude,” he said.
“Yeah he’s alright, he’s got some game.”
“You need to do something.”
“I will,” I assured him with a pat on the back.
“No, you need to do something.”
“Uhhh, yeah, I know.”
“She likes you, but thinks you’re weird.”
“Most do.”
We walked quietly for another block. “How do you know her?” I asked.
“She’s my ex-girlfriend.”
“Oh. I see.”
We got to the house party and I left Sarah at the door. I high fived the first girl I saw just to look cool. I’ve known her all my life, I told myself, because if you don’t believe it Sebastian, nobody will. You always want to look like you’ve known everyone for years. Every stranger is your long-lost best friend. After a year of practicing cold approach pickup I was able to have a really good time in any party environment, even with complete strangers. While most people would stand in the background clutching their drinks and scrambling inside their skulls, I’d be meeting new people and having fun. I’d come so far from the nervous, depressed kid with bitch-tits. I suddenly wished I could be with my old friends back in Vancouver, just to show them what I’d done. But I knew they wouldn’t care, or understand. Maybe they would. Who knows?
I glanced back at Frenchy; he seemed incredibly out of place, eyes darting about in his head. She looked slightly put off too. Neither of them were talking to anyone.
Excellent! Magnifico!
You would think that ignoring the girl I came with, and leaving her in the clutches of a charming French man would be a terrible strategy, but it’s quite the contrary. Women are attracted to men of abundance. My complete lack of neediness or jealousy, my ability to attract other women before her eyes, with no regard for her feelings actually makes her more attracted to me. All this time, the French guy is trying to build rapport with her and I’m breaking it. It means I have standards, game, and freedom of choice. Or, so I hoped.
After half an hour of socializing and flirting with random, non-committal girls, I came back to Sarah and Frenchy. They were standing in the corner silently gazing, possibly bored. Superb, I thought. He ran himself dry. Frenchy again mentioned his house and his bong.
“Well, ummm, I’m with him,” she said, pointing at me.
“Good, good!” He said, stroking his mustache. “You will eh come weet us, no?”
“Sure, let’s get the hell out of this dump,” I said.
You wish pal.
As we exited the party and turned onto the main road, I flagged down a taxi. This was my chance—all or nothing, glory or death. If we went back to Frenchy’s house, I’d be done. He’d pull out that hookah, put on one of his brilliant short films and drag her to his room. I could picture the whole sordid affair and it wasn’t pretty. I put my arm around Sarah’s shoulder, looked at Frenchy and said, “Sorry man. We have to go. It was really nice to meet you.” His eyes narrowed, his shoulders slumped. Yes friend, this is what defeat feels like. I’m sorry, you were a fine opponent, but I’m a P.I.M.P. As I pushed her into the cab she looked back at him, then at me, then at the cab and back to Frenchy and said, “Bye.”
We drove off.
She looked at me accusingly. “Oh, you can find him on Facebook,” I said, reaching out
and pulling her in.
I went to kiss her; she hesitated, gave me the stink eye, then submitted. We did it lightly a few times and then made-out. I put my hand on her thigh and with a newborn dove’s softness, grazed her pussy. Yes Sarah, I am marriage material. I am great. I am Sebastian, the pickup artist.
We got to her apartment. Anna was doing yoga in the living room, in the dog position. “Hi Anna,” I said as we passed by to Sarah’s room. She smiled at me. I think I liked Anna better than Sarah. Sarah’s sort of a bitch to me. I could have Anna, I told myself. I could have any woman. I could have a condo on Mars.
I shut the door and pushed Sarah to the bed, which was becoming my patented move. She pulled off her top, then the rest came off like a great event. I reached into to my pocket for the condom and she didn’t say anything, which was good. Some women will shut down at the first sign they’re about to get fucked. “It just happened!” They’ll say. A few minutes later I was behind her, strapped up and ramming her doggy style, with her head bumping into the wall, probably waking her neighbors. I felt pretty damn great about myself, so I blurted out, “Good girl!”
She stopped bucking her hips, looked back at me and said, “Excuse me? Did you just say good girl?”
I halted mid-thrust for a moment, stupefied. What is this, some sort of chick test? Oh right… she’s a feminist. I ignored her and continued pumping for another two minutes, I flipped her over a few times and blew my load in triumph. She wasn’t nearly as impressed as I was.
As we drifted off to sleepy land I imagined Frenchy at home, sucking his bong and watching his short films, cursing my name. I’m sorry friend, you can’t win them all. I should have got his number; he’d make a good wingman.
Chapter 20
Abode (Superman)
My new roommate was weird. He slept all day in his stanky room, and refused to socialize except when cooking his lunch, which he would lecture on about with great gaiety. “It’s all about the whole grains and organics. Don’t eat that crap out of a can.” Then he would return to his room and lock the door, probably to furiously masturbate to kiddie porn.
I gave my notice on the third day. Eventually, out of pity, I told locked door-man about the dating sciences and why I was practicing pickup, how great it was, and why he should check it out. I offered to teach him, free of charge. He told me I was weird and a manipulator of women. He was quite upset. After that I saw even less of the guy. The Spanish homie asked me what happened, but we couldn’t communicate so I spelled it out in Google Translator. He typed back, “He is shit. I don’t like him. Ja ja ja ja.”
I texted Sarah a few times to hang out, but she replied with, “I’m really busy with school. I’ll call you.” So I took this as, “Not gonna happen again.” I wondered where I’d screwed up. Maybe it was calling her a good girl, or all the damn cock-block battles. I’ll never know. Most attractive women are very unforgiving. You make one mistake and it’s game over. It’s not like they need us. They can make good money, they have employment insurance, they have their sex. If you mess up, they find a guy that gets it right, or they slut around looking for Mr. Universe until they’re fat and single at thirty-six, sitting by the nickel slots and wondering where all the, “real men,” have gone.
I was realizing that in order to figure this out, I would have to piss a lot of people off. I wasn’t quite cool with that, but it’s either be a creepy douchebag—or lonely for life. I’d heard that meaningless sex can’t fulfill you, but it’s hard to relate when you need to work your ass off just to get some.
My meaningless sex was fantastic. I would love to have loads of meaningless sex, at least until I met my goddess. I had to get about twenty solid phone numbers, not counting the twenty or so bad ones, to get one girl to meet me. It sucked. It shouldn’t be this hard. But I still felt inspired, like a birdie falling out of its nest and flying away to avoid poachers.
I looked online for a new roommate and met Alexandro, a thirty-one year old Venezuelan. I went to his apartment to meet him. He looked like Superman, tall, tanned, buff. When I met him on his doorstep, I asked if he had a girlfriend. He chuckled.
“Man, man, man! I’m a fucker man! I have two girlfriends.”
It was perfect. Here I was, moving in with what the pickup nerds called, a natural: A real ladies man, as opposed to the guys that read books on how to get laid. He told me that in his country, boys are taught to pickup girls at a young age. It was discussed over the dinner table by your father. In fact, if you couldn’t pull ass by fourteen, there was something wrong with you. Maybe you were gay.
Alexandro said, “Yeah man, let’s pick up some girls. We can share them.” And by share I’m sure he meant spit-roast. You know, one end in the front, the other in the…y’know, like a pig over a fire-pit.
I told him about a dating coach named Neil Strauss, and how he said you could create a threesome by initiating a move called a, “dual-induction massage.” He laughed at me, “What is this bullshit man? Dual what? Man, man, man! Sebastian! You are learning from nerds. Just pull your dick out and tell them what to do. They like it that way. If they give you shit, you laugh at them and kick them out.”
“Woa. That’s badass.”
“Yeah man. Be a badass.”
Here lay the wisdom of the Latin man, born of maize fields and Inca gold. He teased me a lot. I’d tell him about something I’d read; he’d mock me and then mock the guru who wrote it. It’s hard to argue with a guy who’s been with over a hundred girls, had countless threesomes and open relationships. He really did have two girlfriends; one Spanish and one Asian. He called them Spanish girl and Asian girl. He’d been with both for over two years. They never came over without a large bag of groceries, and if they arrived empty handed he’d send them to the grocery store, so they always had food. He liked to cook, so they’d help him by chopping the veggies and washing the dishes, then he’d teach them Salsa in the living room and fuck them silly. He shared some of his dancing and his advanced sex techniques with me, which I was always grateful for.
“You want to hold her over the edge of the bed, so she feels like she’s going to fall, and your strength is saving her. If you let her go, she falls. But you’re still fucking her, so it’s really hot. Sometimes I get her ass in the air and put my foot on her face, hardcore dominance, man. They love that shit, being treated like a slut. They love it! Don’t listen to what anyone says. They’re all dirty!”
He was also somewhat emotionally abusive. I heard the girls crying from time to time. “Alex. I let you fuck me however you want, I bring you food, you never come out to meet my friends. I let you sleep with whoever you want! Maybe you want me to leave?”
“Fine! Leave then! Get out! Get the fuck out!” He’d yell. And he’d kick them out, just like that. “She’ll be back in a week man,” he’d say. “She can’t find a man like me, not in Canada. Nobody can fuck her like me and nobody gives her what she needs like I do. The men here are pussies who can’t fuck.” And he was right, apparently, because they always came back.
He would ignore her text messages for seven days, and then she’d show up on his doorstep with groceries. They’d cook, dance, and bang. “It’s all about orgasms man. You gotta give it to her like a man. They’ll always come back if you treat them like crap. Treat them like crap and love them like they’ve never had it.”
You may think these girls had low self-esteem or were stupid, retarded even, but they weren’t. They were attractive women with university degrees and good jobs. They just reacted well to being treated like shit from time to time. They were addicted to the emotions. Not all women want to have a sweet man all of the time—they get bored. Sometimes they need drama just for drama’s sake. Imagine your entire life you had men trying to please you, to make you comfortable, and all you want is a little danger for once, or someone to call you on your bullshit. Try walking up to a group of girls and saying, “What’s up sluts!?” and see what happens. Try it ten times with positive energy, not hateful lik
e, and I guarantee that at least eight of those attempts will elicit positive reactions. They will laugh. I know because I’ve done it many times.
Sometimes when I talked to his women, they would flirt with me and Alexandro would get jealous. He tried not to show it, but he’d grind his teeth and make comments, mocking my clothes, or posture, or choice of food. “Why always rice man? Beans. Beans are good for you,” and, “Get to the gym. Become a man.”
I couldn’t help it, I was becoming attractive to all women. My energy was different. I didn’t have to try anymore, I just was. Women will often flirt with friends of their man unconsciously. It’s like they’re testing our abundance. Show jealousy or neediness and you risk losing your woman. I think he was smart enough to recognize how he was projecting himself. Many men can’t control jealousy at all. Jealousy is a disease of the mind. Why be jealous when any hour you can walk out your door and meet more girls? If a woman doesn’t want to be with you, fuck her. Seriously. Most chicks only cheat when their emotional, sexual, or monetary needs aren’t being met. But if you don’t plan on marrying, or paying for her shit, don’t worry about it. Just be prepared to find a new girlfriend every few years. And you better know how to make her laugh, intrigue her, lead her, and give her orgasms.
I spent many nights talking to Alex and learning from him. I’d tell him about my pickup adventures and though he thought I was weird, he learned a few things about game from me too. I started bringing various girls over and he was always impressed, though he’d bust on me about their age. “Bro, you need a woman. Not these… girls.” I’d ignore him though. I think he was jealous.
Despite all his sexual abundance and open relationship status, he wasn’t a happy guy. He had demons. I made note of that as well. Even physically beautiful people are fucked up. He didn’t like Canada or Canadians. He thought we were boring and cold. He’s probably right. Would I have such a hard time meeting women in Venezuela?
