A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (3 page)

The week after the surgery, I was sitting with my roommates taking bong hits and watching Jackass when a documentary about pickup artists came on. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as pickup artists. It was like someone telling me Bigfoot was real. This dating coach on the documentary said that any guy, any size, shape, race, or age, could learn to seduce beautiful women through the practice of not-so secret techniques. And there were Internet forums where amazing and powerful pickup tactics were being shared freely.

I looked at my roommates to see if they were excited. One was picking his nose, the other was launching a new game of God of War on the Xbox. I ran upstairs to my room, got onto the Internet, and started reading. I devoured articles all day and all night until the sun was rising over the smog of
Vancouver
.

You bro, are going to be awesome at this.

Here was my answer: I would approach beautiful women, learn pickup and become a super hero. It was as obvious as pooping, breathing air, or paying rent. The next morning I woke up early, ate a greasy breakfast of eggs and bacon with an Americano, marched to the nearest hip street, and prepared my first approach.

It works. Everything changed.

Transmogrification (
Newb
)

“Fuck it,” I told myself as I attempted my first approach… ever, with my heart hammering through my sore and bandaged chest, sweat running over my palms, bladder quivering, and every pre-installed voice screaming, Don’t do it Sebastian! You’ll be bludgeoned to death, your bloody remains scattered as pigeon feed! Go back to your tribe you pussy. Go back to being lazy, sad, and poor. You’re gonna have a panic attack. You’re invading her privacy and she’s too pretty for you.

I lurched towards her, wiped my brow, lowered my sunglasses, and said, “You have the whole bench to yourself, nice work.” It was the best I could come up. I’d forgotten every pickup line I’d spent all night memorizing.

“Hello,” she replied, lowering Anna Karenina and looking up at me.

Her teeth were shiny and perfect; her lips, puffy and youthful. She was hot.

“What are you doing?” I asked meekly.

“I’m just chilling out. It’s my day off. I live in White Rock but I
looove
Vancouver
.”

It was going ok, but I was too nervous. There was something about relating roller coasters to sex and I was supposed to touch her a lot, or hypnotize her; but I’d smoked too much pot that year and the short term memory suffered. My heart beat even faster, and it took effort to push air through my lungs, so I coughed, and the world flipped upside down like in that movie Inception. I was on the verge of another panic-attack. This is what usually happened when I talked to pretty girls. This is why I wanted to learn how to pick them up—to end my brain’s tyrannical reign over my body.

“
Ummm
, well I’ll just be over, cough,
ummm
, at that coffee shop ok…bye,” I stuttered.

“Umm, bye?” she said with a furrowed brow as I fled with my terror. Oh my terror. How embarrassing.

Then there was a serene calm like a beachside breeze in autumn and a smile broke across my twenty-seven year old face.

You did it. Fuck them all you did it. You’re awesome.

She was into it. I should have stayed there. I should have got her number. I should have taken her for coffee. I should have done lots of things but I didn’t. I decided then that I’d do whatever it took to figure this out. I learned more from talking to one girl for fifteen seconds than I did from reading forum posts all night. The real, “
ahah
,” moments, the epiphanies, only formed after I approached a girl. Experience is the key; it holds the answers. You don’t learn to play guitar by listening to music; you don’t become a world champion athlete by going to games and sitting in the bleachers. Pickup isn’t a spectator sport. If I don’t talk to girls, I don’t meet them, attract them, or fuck them, or marry them, or whatever.

I went home and watched my roommates play Xbox. I thought about that girl on the bench. I could have done much, much better. I would.

Esther (The Stupid Club)

My band wasn’t that popular yet, but we still managed to land small bar gigs. At one show there was this cute little
Bjork
looking girl with these giant blue eyes, short-cropped black hair and a small, pretty mouth.

I’d like to fuck that mouth.

Dude. Relax.

She looked real nice, like a best friend’s little sister that you always wanted to fall in love with, and bang (same thing for me). She was flirting her way around the bar so I watched her as I played. I was the lead guitarist and the singer, so in theory I should be able to get the girls, because I’m a cool shit rock star.

Bands; I always hoped that women would launch themselves at me like sex crazed torpedoes. I was into the idea of groupies. Sometimes there were, but I’d screw it up. They’d just stare at me, and I’d stare back. Then they’d pretend they weren’t curious, and so would I. Usually I would just play my set, get my pats on the back and load my gear. I’d go home and spank it, but it’s all about the music anyway, right? The glory of it all?

I’ve always loved being on stage. Maybe that’s why I became so good at seducing women; the entire act is a rock and roll show, or your own movie. There’s a reason they called them pickup artists and not pickup scientists.

Fuck, the, mouth…

Shhhh
!

I never wanted to be a pickup artist, just to be desired by the ones you look at and go, “damn, she’s amazing.” There’s no perfect body, or perfect laugh, or perfect anything. It’s just something that sets your guts aflame. Some chicks get it right: looks, moves, and mind—we fall for them. Those are the ones that make you stay-put and be a good-boy.

The better I got with girls, the harder it became to find women like that, so the harder I pursued them, like my astrology sign, Pisces: eternally chasing tail. And once you’ve had the best times of your life with a brilliant, sexy girl, the bar is raised. Those dimes are a real challenge for average guys, frustratingly difficult, but so rewarding—especially when faced with competition from taller, richer, more popular, and handsome men. That’s why game was created, to compete with them, and to teach us what our fathers failed to.

Large glass walls surrounded the bar, so that passersby could peer inside. It was like a fish tank full of drunks. I was on the stage, and just outside a laughing baby ran away from its mother, into the glass wall. It fell and started wailing. The mother picked it up, gave it a mild scolding, then comforted it, and carried on. I’d just witnessed the loss of innocence—that’s how we learn to fear pain.

I finished my set and put down my guitar. Little
Bjork
was standing just to the right of the stage, sneaking glances at me and twisting one toe on the sticky floor. This time I knew what to do…

Talk to her.

I said, “Are you drilling a hole to
China
?”

“Ha
ha
. You guys are really good. I like your shoes.” She pointed at my dirty Chuck
Taylors
.

“You can’t have them. They’re mine,” I said.

“Shut up! I have two pairs at home.”

I moved aside so the other band could set up their gear.

“Yeah. I want them, give them to me,” I said. “Where do you live?”

“They won’t fit you, crazy. You’re funny, what’s your name?” She took a step forward.

“I’m Sebastian. What’s yours?”

“Esther.”

Something amazing was happening. I felt that warm glow deep inside that gently whispers up through your vessel, like a slow opium-boat ride to
Laos
, and says, you got this buddy—you got this. You’re the Eiffel Tower of Power; you’re James Dean, Martin Luther King, and Santa Claus at the same time. Reach for the stars, grab a planet, devour the inhabitants, and take a nap.

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.

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.”