by Tony D
I walked past the bar. “Sebastian!” One of the servers yelled. “Where you been?”
One day people will line up to shake your hand. You will teach them how to free themselves from the tyranny of a sexless, artless, soulless, respectless, passionless existence, and rise above the sheep. You will do great things, and when these peons come to kiss your ass, you will fart on their lips. They’ll wipe the fart grease off their lips, and sell it on Amazon.
I could understand where the managers were coming from. I talk too much, ask too many questions. That’s not the way they did it. They did the grind, waiting for life to give them permission to move forward. They’d never created something out of nothing; they’d never done anything for themselves. All they did was find a job, collect their pay check and follow the rules. That’s what they expected me to do. That’s what we’ve been doing. That’s what you get.
“Sebastian! Section B needs water.”
“I’m coming,” I said.
Chapter 30
Con men of love (Boogers)
He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. “You see man. I can’t go to clubs. I have this disease that affects my ability to balance. It’s an inner ear disorder. I just get easily disoriented, and I need to use this cane for balance. I feel like the cane makes me look dumb so I don’t use it, but then I fall down.”
Rickard thumbed his chin over the steam from his tea and said, “Hmmmm, interesting.”
That’s what he always said when he didn’t know or care what to tell someone. I’d heard him say the same phrase countless times in his seminars before mumbling, “We’ll get back to that later.” Of course, he never did and the bewildered student would be forever lost in the jungle of his mind.
He looked at me and kept thumbing his chin hairs. “Sebastian. What do you think you can do for him?”
“Well, we could do day game. You don’t need to go to clubs to meet girls. There are malls, bookstores, coffee shops, dog parks.”
“I can’t even climb a flight of stairs." the cripple continued. "I get too confused and I fall. I’ve dealt with this my whole life. How could I ever find a girlfriend that would stay with a guy with a disability like mine?”
“Well,” Rickard said, still stroking his seven whiskers, “we will discuss your coaching options and contact you tomorrow.”
The student stood up, using his cane. “Thanks a lot guys; I can do this. It’s just this damn disease.” He wiped the tears from his face and we sent him on his way.
“Sebastian. I’m thinking,” he said in between sips of his tea. “I want you to take him to a gym and put him on a trampoline. And then take him swimming. This inner ear thing is pretty much a limiting belief. We can work through this.”
Umm…what?
“Put him on a trampoline?” I said, confused. “You’re kidding…right? It’s not a limiting belief. This guy is disabled.”
“Hmmm, interesting,” he said. “Well what do you think we should do?” He wiped his nose hair with his finger.
“Shit. I dunno. We can take him to the mall. He can still approach girls, but the guy needs medical care, not a dating coach. How much did he pay you?”
“Twenty five hundred. Ok, I’ll think about this tonight. Let’s get to the women’s’ meeting. It starts at four.”
I followed Rickard to his Hyundai. As we were driving past the mall I noticed a strange crust all around the edge of his seat. I peered a little closer, and to my utter horror, and disgust I discovered a long perimeter of encrusted boogers. Gag! He’d probably spent years picking his nose and wiping it there. I rolled down the window and hung my nose out to repress the vomit reflex. Where was the eject button? How does this guy get laid? Oh right… he doesn’t. I’d never seen him with a girl. He’s too busy picking his snot and wiping it on things. Bile.
I’d been coaching his clients and helping him with his seminars for free, for two months. The guy had never picked up a girl in front of me. He charged his clients thousands of dollars but didn’t actually care if he helped them. He just wanted their money. I couldn’t believe he wanted me to put that disabled dude on a fucking trampoline. How would that help him get a girl? That would just get him killed.
Rickard had started coaching for women, and the meeting was full of them. One of his junior coaches did the presentation and as he was flipping through a PowerPoint, Rickard crept around the outside perimeter with his digital camera, snapping pictures. At the end of the seminar a lady approached him to inquire as to why he was photographing the women.
“Oh, just for our personal records,” he replied.
“Personal records?” she frowned. “You mean, like a memento?”
“Yes. Like that.”
“You can’t take pictures of us. That’s so… unprofessional. We’re here for dating advice!”
She argued her case for a few minutes, and he convinced her that his pictures would not end up on the Internet. Although, I’m sure he had other plans for those pictures, involving creams and tissues. That’s when I added it all up. His slave labor coaches, unhappy clients, booger car seat, shitty game—this guy was a creep. All his clients loved me. I worked my ass off for them. Why should this guy make thousands of dollars while he takes advantage of his junior coaches? The next day I called him and said I wouldn’t be coming back. I was starting my own company.
“You can leave Sebastian, but you still owe me fourteen hundred for the coaching I gave you.”
“Coaching? What coaching?” I asked.
“All the training I gave you.”
“You didn’t train me at all.”
“Yes I did.”
“Whatever Rickard. Good luck. Sorry about this.” I hung up.
Over the next few days he texted me two dozen times to claim his money. The only coaching he ever gave me was telling me not to slouch. I’d put in over forty hours of work for this nose munching douche. There was no way I was paying him a dime. Many pickup coaching companies have bad reputations for lacking integrity. Many of them teach underhanded, manipulative tactics that have no bearing in reality. I wanted to work hard for a fair price and help people improve themselves. I think all men should have the choice to be with the quality of women they desire. How could you teach a guy to improve himself if you have no integrity? The next day I started my own company and began advertising for clients. I found three in the first week.
Rickard no longer teaches dating.
Chapter 31
Sand Pussy (Eradication of guilt)
Julia wiped the ketchup from her full lips, looked out the restaurant window at the sunset over the English Bay, put down her fork, and continued talking. “And I figured when I finish University I’ll go to Thailand for six months. My friend Jenny is going, so I’ll go with her. We’re gonna ride elephants and get fucked up. It’ll be sick. Have you been?”
“No,” I said, “but I’ve always wanted to go. Maybe one day, if I can make some money.”
Julia was the friend of a friend. One lonely evening I sent her a message on Facebook, and asked her out for a drink. She agreed, and here we were. I leaned in to go for my second try at a kiss, but she pulled away again. They rarely let you the first time. It’s not rejection, they just aren’t sure yet, so you need to build comfort by talking more. She was nineteen, five foot ten, blond, blue eyed and a bit Nordic looking, like she’d be good on a polar bear swinging a battle axe. She was a nice girl but got retarded, and easy to bang when she drank, or so I’d heard. I thought that was fine, because when I drink I also get retarded and easy to bang.
“No, you haven’t been?”she continued. “I can’t wait. I just wish it wasn’t so expensive to travel. It’s hard to save money; Vancouver is so expensive. I’m already working three days a week and going to school; I don’t know how I’ll save money, but I just love going out and partying costs soooo much money.”
I watched her boobs go up and down as she told me her story. I didn’t care about her trip to Thailand, or her friends, or any of that b
ullshit. I’d been on too many dates that lead to nothing, or bad sex, or some other nonsense. I’d decided before I even messaged her I didn’t want to be her boyfriend: I just wanted to sleep with her three or four times and move on.
“And Jenny is always bragging about her car, and I’m like, I can’t afford a car! So my brother knows I’m a student but wants to borrow money from me, even though he still owes me like, four hundred dollars or something, and I’m all, why don’t you get a job bro, you’re the oldest. I can’t wait to finish school I’m just going to lay on the beach and drink every day; it will be awesome. Jenny said that I could…..”
I reached my hand out and put my finger on her lips. “When are you going to shut the fuck up and kiss me?”
She gazed back, then parted her lips into a little smile, leaned in, pushed out her lips, and then her tongue was in my mouth. I thought about all the food that was probably stuck in her teeth, but I didn’t care, much. At least I was past that stage, the kissing part; earlier the better.
I split the bill with her and we went to the store, grabbed a mickey of gin and some juice, then went to the beach and sat on a log to watch the sunset and get tanked.
“You’re just trying to get me drunk aren’t you?” she said, pushing my chest.
I guess I was. I pushed her back and she fell onto the sand. I fell on top of her.
“You’re trying to get me drunk lady. You want to rape me.”
“I don’t want to rape you! Oh my god!”
“Shut up bitch!” I said, and shoved my tongue back against hers. We played this stupid game of insulting and kissing and drinking until the sun finally set over English Bay. Ten minutes later it was dark, so I took her closer to the water. Our bottle was empty and neither of us were walking, or talking like proper, decent human beings. It was all fighting, wrestling, tonguing, touching, and squeezing and probing and yelling fake insults at each other. Finally I pulled her onto the sand, behind a log, where the night would hide us. She was wearing a skirt so I put my finger inside her and she let out a whimper.
“Fuck me now. Get your dick out,” she demanded.
“Ok, ok your highness. Geez,” I replied, fumbling for my condom. I found it, ripped it open and slipped it on with one hand. I eased up inside her until I reached the hilt, and started pumping away. She was tight.
“Ole! Senor! Oooooooh si, si, si!” she screamed in Spanish.
This confused me because she was blond and Canadian, but I continued to slam away on the beach with the waves crashing and the land crabs watching, clicking their claws to the beat. In the distance, I could hear people laughing in hushed tones. Yes, cheer away. I’m a bastard and you love me for it, you jealous freaks.
“Ole, ole, senor!” she continued screaming.
It started to feel gritty down there. She had sand in her pussy. Then suddenly the sex felt better, softer, warmer. Logic told me my only condom was ripped to shreds. Every instinct wanted me to come inside this fertile creature, but I’m too scared of babies.
“What a great condom!” I said, pulling out and inspecting the flapping rubber.
Julia pushed me off and got up. I looked down and saw it had ripped.
“Too much sand!” she whined. Then she started tearing through her purse. “Sebastian! Where’s my phone? I can’t fucking find my phone. My phhhooooonnne!”
“What? I didn’t touch your goddamn phone woman! It must have fallen out.”
She ran up and down the beach with her head near the sand, drunk-faced and yelling nonsense at the night creatures. It’s not like she could have found anything in the dark.
“Jesus,” I said. “Give me your hand and follow me.” I took out my cell phone and used the flashlight function to scour the sand. We searched together. That’s all she wants, I thought, is a man to take charge of her rampaging emotions. We got half way up the beach and she was still freaking out yelling, “Where is it?” and digging through her purse. I just wanted to get back to her apartment so I could finish banging her. It wasn’t far away, but the girl kept spazzing out in a drunken fervor. I got fed up and grabbed the damned purse away from her.
“Woman! You think it’s in here?” I said, and then slowly turned it upside down and let the contents spill on the sidewalk. There was her makeup, keys, coins, various knick knacks and, of course, her cell phone.
“Thanks baaaby. You’re the best,” she said, cuddling up to my neck and squeezing my balls. She was nuts when she drank, that much was for sure. We finally got back to her apartment, a tiny little mess with clothes strewn about, a reflection of her mind I suppose. It reminded me of Olivia. I put her on the bed and had my way, this time minus the sand and cheering crowds. I didn’t have another condom so I raw-dogged her. I couldn’t help it, she was so young and hot…I came inside her.
“Dude, no! You should have pulled out,” she whined.
“Sorry.”
“You’re dirty.”
“I guess I am.”
I reminded myself to get an STD test that week.
A few days later she knocked on my door, came into my apartment, gave me a blowjob, swallowed my load, and walked out. And that was it. Wow. I never saw her again…not romantically. Once I ran into her at a party. She was across the club, but had spotted me first. Her middle finger hovered in the air, directed at me. I shrugged with a confused face, but I wasn’t confused. I’d straight up played her, and didn’t feel the least bit bad about it. It was like a trip to the Laundromat. I was clean of guilt. I was a real bastard. Then why did I feel so cheeky? Revenge? To whom? Someone, somewhere, sometime. I really didn’t give a shit anymore.
Sorry bout that.
I’m not sorry.
Chapter 32
She’s Married (The Eternal Recurrence)
I’d quit the restaurant when they asked me to, but I was having a hard time finding clients and needed money. I didn’t have a reputation, so I worked on my blog daily and spent more time on forums helping out newbies. Out of fear and despair, I fell back into the service industry of despair. I worked for six months in a high end restaurant called the Crab Palace. I was cleaning tables again. My plan was to squirrel enough money and go to Thailand for a long trip, to like, find myself.
I still loved Vancouver; the smell of the ocean, the warm winters, the mountains in the distance and the laid back stoner vibe. I thought, if I lived here, I’d have to make more money and get myself a nice girlfriend. Maybe she would travel with me.
I decided I would go on a pickup rampage to find a girl, and I’d push myself to be promoted at my new restaurant job. I’d be a server. They were paid well. It wasn’t such a bad gig, I lied to myself. I just didn’t believe I could be a full time dating coach, or a writer. I figured everyone was doomed to have a job with two weeks’ vacation a year, but I knew that was a lie. Success is a series of false starts.
After six hours of cleaning fat tourists crab shells, I drank and smoked weed. Sometimes I kept a bottle in my locker and started drinking before my shift ended. I pretended to be Bukowski or Hemingway—the bus boy poet—insightful slave for hire, but really I was just depressed. I’d been writing a lot, working on a slam poetry routine. I’d even performed a few times at a local café. I was pretty good at it. Once after a performance I made out with the judge—she was a nineteen year old girl. I’d become talented at this whole pickup thing. It was more of an afterthought. If I liked a girl, I hit on her. I didn’t care about game. All I looked for was her smile and receptivity. If she was down, I’d escalate as far as she would let me.
I did the pickup bender and got laid a few times, but it never lasted. The girls always flaked on me, or I on them. My standards had become ridiculously high, higher than my ability. I didn’t get it. I wasn’t fat, or stupid, and I was fairly handsome. Just not handsome like the most handsome guys. And looks do matter, no matter what the puas tell you. Looks don’t matter in that your looks won’t stop you from trying your best. You just have to accept you are what you are,
and then work twice, or ten times as hard as the tall, good looking guys to improve your game, style, health and status.
At work, I did alright, but I was constantly mocked and disrespected by the servers. The Crab Palace’s lease had expired and the building was set to be demolished. On the last day of work, all the servers stood outside, gazed at their luxury prison, cried, and took pictures. I felt oddly happy, like, their suffering and fear was my freedom. I was still young and able to adapt and grow. But most of these people were screwed. They had no talent other than serving tables. At least I could coach and write.
I found a few clients here and there. It was the only reason I could afford to live in Vancouver, the most expensive city in Canada. The few clients I found loved me. I changed their lives. But still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a dating coach. I thought that people would think I was a creepy, sex-obsessed weirdo. But I mean, aren’t all men sex obsessed weirdo’s? If they aren’t then they’re in denial. I think all people, women included, are liars. They lie about their hopes, dreams and settle for comfort and safety.
I was ready to be in love, but had no idea if love even existed. I refused to settle for anything less than my desire, which was a pretty, young, fit, feminine, highly intelligent girlfriend. Delusions of grandeur? I suppose so. Shallow? Definitely. I’m a lot less picky now that I’ve aged a bit. I got that obsession with younger girls out of my system, mostly. Maybe not.
I haven’t.
I spent many nights going to the Cambie; a hostel bar with a frat house vibe. It had cheap beer, approachable women, and a juke box that played nineties rock. It was better than any nightclub I’d been to, probably because I still identified myself as an adolescent. I like bars because I’m good at talking. Loud nightclubs were never my thing. I’d sit and drink with my pickup friends, and we’d talk about…well, pickup. Most of these guys told me I should quit the restaurant business and go full time as an instructor. I’d just shrug their comments off. “Yeah, I know, maybe. I’m just a normal guy. I’m not some love guru.”
