A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (20 page)

“You’re, cock, feels, perfect,” she said through heavy breaths as I slammed into her.

I put her on her back and lifted both her legs up with one hand and draped them over my shoulder. Then I leaned into her so that her legs were almost behind her head, and my weight was holding her down. From here I had very deep penetration. I pounded her there with my forehead touching her forehead, looking straight into her eyes. Then I got her on top and let her grind onto me, doing all the work while I pinched her nipples, stroked her thighs, and eventually put my arms behind my head and just watched her curvy body rock with her lust. Then we went old-school missionary and I hammered away fast and hard with my tongue-in-her-mouth until we both came. It was greatness realized.

Nice work dude. I’m going to sleep now, but I talk in my sleep, just so you know.

When we were done I opened the sliding door to the balcony so she could have a smoke.

“That was…awesome,” she said, in between puffs. “Thank you.”

I laughed and put on my shorts. “Thank me? I’ve never been thanked before. Hey, are you really married?”

“Yes. I’m married,” she sighed, leaning over my balcony, looking across the street over the dog park.

“That sucks. I don’t think I’ll ever get married. It seems like a drag. We could have a lot of fun together,” I said.

I knew I wasn’t going to see her again. I rarely do. They’re either looking for a one night stand, or they have a boyfriend, or in this case a husband. Maybe I’m not boyfriend material. Even though I’d just had glorious sex with a pretty girl, I felt hollow. I liked this one though, the way I’d liked many of these girls.

“Yeah, it does suck,” she said. “I need to go. He’ll be getting back from wherever he went tonight.”

I called her a cab. On her way out we kissed at the door. I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote on it. “Here’s my number. Give me a call if you want. I’d be into seeing you again.” Though I knew I wouldn’t.

She looked at it, then at me. “Careful Sebastian, I might just do that.”

I watched her drive away, and then I lay down to pass out, alone. “Married,” I muttered to myself. Poor guy, I hope he doesn’t kill me. Then I smiled. I grabbed my notebook and wrote down everything that just happened. The lair guys would love it. I was empty except for the story. Once I chose to quit feeling sorry for myself, and appreciated the experience, it was quite blissful. I should have taken pictures.

Madonna Whore Complex (
Spitroast
)

“I can’t approach that one,” my student said in his thick Russian accent, motioning to the woman standing at the magazine rack. His main concern was not only that he didn’t know what to say to women, but that he wouldn’t be able to express himself due to his limited understanding of English. On top of that he had more issues than just being chicken shit.

“What? Why not? She’s cute,” I replied. “Go for it.”

“She has tattoo. That means slut.”

“What? No, no, no, man. She just has a tattoo. That doesn’t mean anything. Don’t write fiction—you’re not a writer.”

“In
Russia
woman with tattoo means she was in prison. A slut.”

Facepalm
.

“Brother, welcome to
Canada
. That just means she listens to
emo
music and likes tattoos. She’s probably pissed off at her parents or something. She could get revenge by giving you a hand-job!”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Dude, you have Madonna-Whore complex. You think that either she’s a pure, virginal, sweet and innocent Madonna, or she’s a cock-crazed whore. Quit judging her. Like, you’re from
Russia
, does that mean you’re a vodka swilling, wife beating
Grozny
war vet?”

My prodding didn’t help. He stood there frozen with fear. I took him to a table in the café. “Look bro, this is bullshit. Let’s talk about this.”

Andrei was obsessed with his best friend, a pretty blond he met through co-workers. He’d been fawning over her for five months. They talked on the phone three times a day, they saw each other at least five times a week. He drove her everywhere and ran her errands and paid her bills. His thoughts were constantly drawn towards her. She was the reason he hired me. I told him I’m not a matchmaker, and that he had a bad case of what the pickup artists call one-
itis
. The cure for one-
itis
is to sleep with a bunch of other women. Andrei didn’t want other women; he wanted his special snowflake who obviously didn’t reciprocate his affection…not romantically anyway.

“Brother,” I said. “You need to escalate, like an elevator, move to the next step. Do something or you’re going to lose her.”

“
Aww
no. She is very good girl. She is not like those sluts. I actually like this girl.”

I groaned and stretched. “You actually like her huh? So why haven’t you made sweet love to her yet?”

Andrei looked down at his feet, then back at me with widened eyes. “Oh she is not like that. I want this girl to be girlfriend. She is different, she is…special.”

I reached out and lightly slapped him on the cheek.

“
Ow
!”

“Andrei! What the fuck? We’ve discussed this. Stop thinking about yourself, quit the chatter. What about her needs? You don’t think this seemingly young, pure, innocent girl knows how to work a dick? You don’t think a girl that hot has several guys on the side? You don’t think she’s been spit-roasted, or had another guy’s
jizz
on her face?”

He grinned at me, silently, listening.

“Look man,” I stood up, then sat back down. “You’re living in a fantasy world. You’re in fucking Hogwarts—but, well—you’re a
Muggle
. I want you to be a wizard bro. I mean, god, you give me four hours with her and I’ll bang her. I guarantee it.”

“What is this…
speet
-roast?”

“Umm, you know, like a pig on a fire? No?” I motion with two fingers pointing towards each other.

“
Ohhh
,
hahahah
!”

“Yeah. Spit-roast. Hey are you listening to me?”

“You think she is with the other men? I do not think so.”

“Look bro. You’ve had this girl over to your house a dozen times in the last month. If you don’t do something she’s going to lose interest. Trust me. Actually, you’re way deep into friend zone territory. Women like men of action, and you’re afraid of rejection, so afraid of what to say. You have to not give a shit, be outcome independent, be aloof, be busy. And when you get a woman you’re attracted to, alone with you, escalate…man! Do something, anything. Kiss her, touch her, tell her she’s sexy. If she doesn’t like it, she can piss off. You can find another girl, a better one. I’m teaching how to do this. But in the end, she’ll find you more attractive because you have the ability to attract other women.”

Andrei looked at me with his mouth open.

“Close your mouth,” I said, “it’s a visible sign of stupidity, and you’re not stupid, I think.”

He laughed. “Sebastian, what if I make mistake, do the wrong thing?”

Do you honestly think your cupcake doesn’t have options? You need options! You act differently because you think she’s a good girl, because you don’t want to, ‘blow it,’ and the lady just wants some dick. By trying not to blow it, you blow it. Get it?”

“I don’t want be jerk,” he said.

“Do you want to get laid? You need to grow a pair brother. Remember what I told you?”

He looked up and to the right, into his memories. “What is that?”

“You think she’s a good girl or marriage material, and not a slut for fucking. You can’t judge women like that; it’s killing your game. Some other guy is fulfilling her sexual needs because you aren’t. You were judging her from the moment you met. You created a story in your head that she was this pure little girl to fit your imaginary vision of a perfect wife. There’s a little man attached to your dick that talks to you, all the time—shit, I can hear him now. Mine looks like Sean Connery mixed with Hitler riding a Unicorn, with a mustache like Nietzsche and the chest of Bruce Lee. He never shuts up. The bastard is always filling my head with nonsense.”

“What?” He laughed. “Hitler? I’m no racist. Unicorns? What?”

I placed my hand on his arm. “Never mind, how many times have you paid for her dinner?”

“I always pay everything. I am man.”

“Dude. She’s not your girlfriend! You’ve made no arrangement of monogamy. You are not in a relationship until you’ve had sex. You don’t need to pay for shit. What does she get out of this relationship? Everything. What do you get? An empty wallet and blue balls.”

He paused to think about this.

“Yes, I admit. I am pussy. I will make move. Thank you Sebastian.”

“Be willing to blow it. Play to fail!”

“I will play to lose Sebastian, thank you.”

“Good.” I sighed relief. “Remember to put your condom on. Do it before you leave your house.”

He scratched his cheek. “Really?”

“Yeah man. Think positive.”

“You are crazy.”

“Yes.”

He got up to leave, stopped, turned around and smiled at me.

 
“Sebastian, I’m not going to put my condom on.”

“Good, good man. Now go.”

If I judged every woman that hooked up with me quickly, they’d all be sluts. Even if she is a good girl, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. Some bleeding heart might read this and think I’m talking about rape or something. It’s not like that. Women want men that know what they want, but don’t need what they want. Don’t make judgments about the character of others. Character changes like the tide, a fluid. People aren’t statues. Neither are you, human.

I went to the bank to deposit my five hundred dollars.

Frosted Flakes (All
growed
up)

I’d completed a quest. I was a woman conquering dragon-warrior of legend. The question was, if I’d come so far and accomplished so much, why couldn’t I find one lousy girl to hang out with me twice? Who would I blame? Capitalism? Feminism? I had only myself.

Since the
Crab
Palace
had shut down my budget for bar romping was diminished. All of the girls I’d been seeing either weren’t good enough, or decided I wasn’t good enough. There was Angela, the Mexican sweetheart who I met through friends at the
Crab
Palace
. She loved me when I put my hand to her face, shoved lightly and ordered, “Go away, to your village…and don’t return unless you bring me a goat!” She recruited overseas talent for corporations. Her Mexican man friends thought I was a scoundrel, and couldn’t understand why she was so attracted to a guy that publicly disrespected her.

“We don’t treat our women like that,” one of them told me.

Angela had her tongue in my ear. I stroked her hair and looked at them through my whiskey-cola. “What are you talking about? She loves it!”

She was perfect girlfriend material. Affectionate, beautiful, twenty-six, exotic, fit, smart, funny.

Her visa expired a week later and she flew back to
Mexico
.

Then there was Rhonda, the Brazilian Lesbian. I met her on a dance floor at a dive bar. She was wearing her winter jacket. “That’s ridiculous girl,” I said above the Michael Jackson remix. “Take it off or get out.” She unwrapped and her brown, Amazonian body emerged. We fucked like hamsters for a week until she left me for a lesbian she met on Facebook.

“We have amazing sex!” she said, meaning us. “But a man can never touch me the way a woman can. You will never be able to, because you are a man.”

I couldn’t deny that logic.

I was dating another white girl, and we watched one of my favorite movies, Stanley
Kubrick’s
A Clockwork Orange. She kept repeating, “This is weird.” I tried to explain it was a film chronicling a young boy’s destructive descent and ascent in a dystopian society.

“Ya…it’s kinda weird.”

It lasted one month, until the novelty of her body wore off.

Then there were the flakes; dozens and dozens and dozens. I met them at parties, bookstores, coffee shops. I’d introduce myself, make a great first impression and get their contact. But they would rarely meet me for a coffee, or even return my messages. Was my hair too fucked up?

I got a haircut.

Was it my teeth?

I got them whitened.

Maybe I needed a better job?

I doubled my advertising tactics.

Maybe I should wear a t-shirt that listed my social accomplishments? I’d written over two hundred poems that year, and they were good. I used to be in a band. I approached a shit ton of women? I’m,
errr
, special? But I never spent more than a day feeling sorry for myself. Whenever I felt bad I would look in the mirror and remember what if felt like to have boobs. I remembered that I used to want to kill myself. I remembered all the beautiful women I’d been with and I was thankful. The memories, they always lifted my spirits. They still do.

I found something else that fulfilled me more than women: Art. I wrote and wrote, at least a thousand words a day. I felt that it would pay off —developing this skill. I would have a record of my time on this planet to show all the poor bastards that inherit it—our Vortex. I don’t know if they’ll still read books by then, but whatever. They can upload it into their
digiheads
. At least I made something real.

 
So bitter, so bitter.