A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (4 page)

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 through 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.

So I had a girlfriend. My epic foray towards being a player was ending with my first conquest. But I’d already purchased a non-refundable ticket to
Montreal
. I told Esther about my mission, how I would be gone for at least a year. She didn’t really seem all that disappointed. I guess hot girls know they can find another guy relatively easily. Now I think she was faking it. She worked hard for me too. We met once more, fucked at my house, and I waved forlornly as she drove away in her little red Civic. It felt shitty because I really liked her, but I knew that in the long run my great adventure would bring me more joy than domestication ever would. But still, I was sad. I actually cried. I got naked and danced to The Smiths with my dick between my legs. Don’t tell anyone.

That week I gave my notice at work. My boss couldn’t understand. He said, “Sebastian, you finally start to work like a man, after all this, and now you’re leaving?”

“You told me I was a writer.”

“That was before you became a good employee.”

I knew that I needed money to start in a
new city
. That sense of urgency had compelled me to work twice as hard. I’d gained a lot of respect from my boss, but I didn’t want to install televisions for rich dickheads any more… it made me feel like Piggy in Lord of The Flies. A man’s work should fulfill his soul and give him a strong sense of purpose. I wanted to seduce beautiful women and see the world. I wasn’t sure about work yet. I needed money… that much I understood. Not much, but no amount of money would keep me somewhere I didn’t want to be.

My friends were bummed out but happy for me. I felt bad for them, but I was happier for myself. I saw in my friends a lot of potential they would probably never realize. I had to move on and grow.

I spent one more night smoking and gaming with my roommates, and the next morning I left for the airport. I love that feeling of uncertainty—not the sleepless nights and nervous shits, but the feeling of upcoming adventure. Every time I overcome a fear of the unknown, I become stronger. I’d lost a girlfriend, a social circle and job security—but I’d gained a future of joy, terror, growth…and debauchery.

Montreal 2008 (Pre-Mayan Apocalypse).

It took five hours for the plane to reach
Montreal
. Flying scared me, a lot more than hot girls, which is funny because I when I was a kid I wanted to be an F-14 pilot, like Goose and Maverick flying upside down, flipping off the Commies. Like, when the nerds became cool. Fuck you all, I’m flying a jet.

We were hurtling at four hundred and fifty miles per hour, forty thousand feet up in a metal tube strapped to a rocket. When the plane hit turbulence and we bounced like shit in a tin can, I looked to the stewardess for signs of distress; she yawned and adjusted her bra. An old white man called her over to complain that his coffee was lukewarm. We’re in a fucking rocket, and this guy wants better coffee. The human race is doomed, for sure.

There was a woman with nice legs a few seats behind me. I asked her if she was from
Montreal
, she said, “
Oui
,” and put on her headphones.

When we finally landed with a screech, I kissed the wall of the Airbus and thanked the universe, or God, or whatever, for not killing me. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go, plummeting into
Quebec
soil and exploding in a fireball of fury. Quick and painless like, besides the mad descent. If I ever go down like that, I’ll laugh the whole way. It would be so absurd.

Montreal
was built around a central point, a big hill named
Mount Royal
. Under
Mount Royal
are two major universities, multiple colleges, and five major entertainment districts all within walking or biking distance of each other. Because of the low rent, liberal standing, and high culture, it’s a hub for artists, musicians, writers and partiers from around the world. It’s perfect for someone that wants to practice picking up chicks. Not only were the locals beautiful and friendly, but it’s a transient bohemian scene where young people come to escape their parents and reinvent themselves.

I rode the bus from the airport to downtown. I noticed most people were dressed superbly. Even sixty year old women had more fashion sense than most Vancouver or
Toronto
girls. French women are beautiful. They have brilliant, thin bodies and big, juicy lips that puff out when they form their vowels. They’re supposedly notoriously easy to pickup.

Legend has it that, in the old days, the fur traders from
France
had no chicks, so the Queen offered all the hot prostitutes land ownership in the
New World
if they would boat over and bang these dudes. So there’s a very sexually-liberated female tradition in place. Basically French girls are sluts.

Good for them.

I didn’t know anybody in the city, and that was fine. I first stayed with a group of Spanish kids who were fun. We went to parties and a few bars, but I mostly warmed up to practicing approaching alone. Anyway, their visas expired at the end of their semester, and they were kicked out of the country, back to pick beans or whatever. So after a month I again needed a place to live and people to hang out with. I still thought of myself as a dirt-bag artist type, so using
Craigslist
I found some dirt-bag artists in a bohemian neighborhood called The Plateau.

Eric was a twenty-four year old visual arts student. He was a shorter guy, a hundred and twenty pounds with perpetually greasy, long blond hair. He loved to wear bright, tight, hipster clothing, paint weird paintings of spaceships, do drugs, drink, party, and fuck anything he could within reason. I liked him, even if I was slightly afraid of his self-destructive tendencies. I figured I could learn something about pickup from him. He could be my guide to the
Montreal
party scene.

The first week we lived together, he snuck into my room, stole my pot, and replaced it with two unmarked pills.

“Bro,” I said, annoyed. “You took my pot.”

“Yeah man. We sort of have an open house like that. But I gave you some Ritalin.”

“I don’t want Ritalin.”

“No worries man. The house will get you back. We have an open policy like that.”

Mark was a quiet, sad musician type. Tall and lanky, he smoked cigarettes constantly, pushing his long black hair back from his face in between puffs. He also loved cocaine, playing guitar, and listening to nineties music. I liked him too, even though he looked like a bum. He was intelligent, fun to talk to, and wanted to be a writer. His music was decent, his writing not so much.

Lucy was a nice girl, about twenty-five, smart and well spoken. She was always available to chat, though I rarely cared to. She had huge tits and they made me somewhat uncomfortable, because she was my roommate and you don’t bang your roommates… you bang their friends. She also had a significant drinking problem. I could tell because she loved red wine, and whenever her mouth was red I knew she’d been drinking, which was often. She would later think I was a creepy douche bag, but in the beginning we were fine.

They say you’re the sum of your closest friends.

Eric told me his favorite pickup bar was
Tokyo
. “Easy hipster chicks,” he said. So I wanted to check it out. One night I walked up the stairs, past seven or eight pretty girls, but didn’t/couldn’t/wouldn’t open any. I cruised into the main lounge and stood near the dance floor, tapping my foot, bobbing my head and scanning like a Terminator for the safest option: someone easy, happy, alone, inviting.

Many cool heads turned to check me out; I felt naked and out of my place. They were bridge-trolls, scarecrows, gargoyles. Three men huddled around every girl, all in sleeveless neon shirts and
sockless
, canvass shoes. They were all younger than me; I felt like an old man. They’ll be changing my diapers soon enough.

I was wearing cheap, baggy jeans, a plaid shirt and generic Adidas shoes. I was straight up no-style. I didn’t recognize the music, or fit into the culture. It was isolating. My mind was racing with the eternal chatter—that little voice that tells you little lies, “Go home, you aren’t cut out for this,” and whatnot.

At this point I had no concept of The Now, or Ego, or any of that stuff. The
puas
just told you to approach within three seconds, before you could think. But here I was, head in the sand, stifled in my skull, heart palpations, etc. The same old bullshit that every new guy goes through, before they repatriate themselves to the realm of men.

You’re supposed to be seen with girls, so that other girls think you’re pre-selected, thus making you appear Alpha: Ancient ape theory. I was pre-selecting which toilet to throw up in, completely aware that I was a loser alone, not talking to girls—a self-conscious, poorly dressed guy with weird social anxiety issues in a strange city far from home. I got a beer, and then another, and felt quite naked drinking alone. All I had to do was say something, anything, to somebody.

I slinked through the club, and was bumped around by the cruel dance floor before I made my way onto the terrace; it was packed with handsome hipsters—an
ocean
of
American Apparel
outfits under perfectly coifed hair, drinking Pabst beneath Chinese lamps.

Focus Sebastian.

I spotted three
hotties
, and tried to move, but my legs were frozen—I couldn’t do it. The girls sensed my fear vibrations with their pussy-powers, and their eyes grew wide, pupils probably dilating too.

What do you say? Are those their boyfriends? What if they ask where your friends are?

The chatter grew in intensity and I started to justify doing nothing.

You don’t want to interrupt their conversation, they’re with their friends. Don’t creep them out. You can try again tomorrow.

I pulled out my cell phone and fucking pretended to talk to someone. I actually mimed talking. Pathetic. Thank god for my cell phone; my water-wings, my savior. I’m not alone…I have friends on the way! I’m just on the phone, waiting. Don’t look at me you handsome bastards. And people did look at me, but they weren’t looking at me—they were looking through me, into the ether, too wrapped in their own thoughts of work, sex, money, school.
Y’know
, human shit.

I hung up on my imaginary friends and walked briskly off the terrace, past the bar, through the dance floor, down the stairs and out of the club. I hopped onto my bike and peddled home at a slow pace feeling like the lowly, pathetic, beta male that I was. Lame, lame, lame.

I lay in bed that night looking out over the cool
Montreal
rooftops, thinking about life and the girl I left behind. I vowed I would never, ever, go out to approach girls and not even try, at least once. I’d come too far, and given up too much to be that guy. No, not that guy; I’m going to be awesome.