A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (8 page)

The Lair (Voices)

You shouldn’t do everything alone. Humans are social creatures and even the greatest of
sociopathic
introverts needs companionship from time to time. If you take someone’s time, make sure you leave something in return—even if only your ear. Not literally your ear, I mean, listen instead of talk.

The day after Eric’s drug fueled rampage I
Googled
, “Montreal Lair,” which was the local men’s group, and signed up for the next membership application meeting. I imagined most of these guys would be professional pickup artists. I thought that if they spent all their free time studying seduction, they must be
pua
lords. Maybe I could infiltrate and seek my Jedi mentor. The truth is, most of these groups, though helpful, are incredibly misguided, like I was.

That night I heard Eric and Lucy arguing about something to do with rent money. I hadn’t spoken to Lucy in a week. I just didn’t see her around, and when I did I had nothing to talk to her about. I was either out partying or reading in my room. I still preferred solitude. Spending too much time in the company of others grates on me. I only like people in small bursts. I’ve never understood why anyone would want to be around others all of the time. Then again, I’m often lonely and
emo
. You have to find a balance that works for you.

It was several days before I received an email from the head of the lair. He invited me to meet with several other applicants at the McDonalds in the mall. On the way to the meeting I harassed a girl on the Metro and asked, “Do you think an overabundance of carbon monoxide on this train makes us sleepy, or is the ride just boring?” She replied meekly, and wouldn’t hold eye contact. I considered shaking her—“I’m awesome you bitch, wake up!”

I gave up, got off and approached a girl selling flowers. “Hey, did you grow all these? Your garden must be glorious.” I asked for her number, but she had a boyfriend. He’s in the army. I insisted she give me her Facebook info. She wrote it down on a napkin. Later, I realized I couldn’t read her handwriting.

If God exists, he wants you to lose. You do this every damn day. How do you still suck at it?

I arrived at McDonalds and saw a pack of wary looking men huddled at a table. They handed me a non-disclosure agreement. They didn’t look like badass
puas
, just a bunch of normal looking guys of various ages. A short faux-hawked guy kept asking me who my favorite pickup guru was.

“I
dunno
,” I told him, “I read some Mystery Method, but I can’t remember his lines. I like RSD, Brad P, and some others. Lately I mostly read biographies about guys like Bruce Lee, Picasso, Nietzsche, Tolstoy,
Bukowski
, and others.”

“I have six dozen routines memorized,” he told me.

“Wow… that’s a lot.”

“Where do you
sarge
?” he said, stroking at his faux-hawk.

“Umm, anywhere. A few bars on
St. Laurent
.”

“I’ve approached about one hundred
HB’s
. Do you use
negs
?”

“Hundreds? Tight.
Negs
? No, not really. Oh wait, sometimes. Yeah. I say, ‘Nice hair, do you have any split ends?’ Hey, you want to go talk to chicks or what, since we’re in the mall?”

“
Naw
man, I only do night game,” he said, stuffing a
McNugget
into his mouth.

“What’s the difference?”

“Night game is my specialty.” He swallowed. “Hey, do you do direct, or indirect?”

“Whatever works I suppose. Every situation is unique, I prefer to improvise. You know, you can’t make predictions in war,” I said.

 
“Ok. I’ll watch you.”

He was nice enough, but gave off bad vibrations; like he might pull a pistol and start firing into the crowd at any minute. We went for a walk around the mall and I approached two girls in their late twenties. I told them their winter boots were badass and asked where I could get a pair. I chatted with these girls and Faux Hawk just stood there ten feet away, staring like a living statue. I waved at him to come over, but he didn’t budge.

“Oh, that’s my friend,” I told the girls, trying not to sound apologetic.

They smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. He looked concerned.

“What’s your name?” One girl hollered at him.

He just sneered, looking at the floor. I palmed my face. Oh right, he only does night game. Ok.

“Well…umm, it was nice meeting you, we have to go…bye!” She said. And just like that the girls were gone forever. Just like that. I asked one for her number but was denied with the, “I have a boyfriend,” line. I asked if he beat her, which got a laugh, but it was done; we’d
creeped
them out. I suddenly missed Eric.

“Hey man, I’ve got some shopping to do,” I said. “I’ll see you at the lair meeting ok?”

“Yeah man. Try night game. It’s the best. Give me a call, we’ll
sarge
.” He stopped to fix his hair in the mirror. He was quite handsome.

“Sure thing buddy,” I lied.

I think it’s funny that local pickup groups are called, “lairs.” I mean, could they have called it something creepier? Then again, it does have a certain underground/counter-culture vibe to it. I’ve never been super into the alternative lifestyle thing. Unfortunately, most men don’t join lairs to get better with women, or to make guy friends: they seem to go to find counseling, or to brag. I do think men’s groups are good overall. They give us a place to express our fears and insecurities without judgment. Western society’s value system frowns upon men expressing their emotional sensitivity. So we keep our issues pressurized, like a nuclear submarine full of closet queers twisted on stimulants.

At the lair meeting there were seventeen other men of all shapes and sizes. Most of them were totally normal and cool. Some dressed a bit funny, but most were decent to good looking, regular citizens under thirty five. I mean, I don’t know what they do at home, at night, when nobody is watching except the insects. But they seemed alright.

The lair hosted a famous weirdo from The Game; a guy named Rick
Sticcus
. He taught us how to hypnotize ourselves by staring at a spot on the wall and imagining walking down a long flight of stairs. At first I was like, what the fuck is this bullshit? But when I noticed every guy there had their eyes closed, I felt like a mind rapist, so I closed mine too. I’d never been in a trance before. Well, besides watching
tv
, or surfing the Internet or all those times I did
lsd
during high school. It was great though. I saw myself flying above the city, going straight through a commercial jetliner, and then coming back into my body. For a few minutes I got quite present to the inner workings of my subconscious and almost freaked out. Over all, it was very cool. Not as cool as a loaded bong hit and big boobies, but fairly splendid. I still practice from time to time.

After the meeting a bunch of guys went out, but I was emotionally drained from the
sarging
and hypnotizing, so I went home to write and sleep. I’d developed a problem; a blatant dislike for those who were unable to self-actualize. I’m talking about the guys that have no hobbies, don’t read, worship others instead of themselves, never travel, pout, judge, complain, and stagnate. I’d been reading books on Zen Buddhism and inspirational tomes like Think and Grow Rich, Unlimited Power, and The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. I was so pumped full of self-improvement theory that my ego was separating me from humanity, who I figured were largely unenlightened. It got so bad that I found myself lecturing art-show hipsters on the importance of goal-setting. I was a dickhead.

I tried to stay positive, but the coldness of many women was getting to me. Even on my path to consciousness via
poontang
I was still driven by voices. When you find yourself mocking and condemning, comparing and judging—this is the ego; that tenacious bastard. He sounds like this: Oh you don’t like the identity I’ve given you eh? Well how about this one!? You’re better than everyone. Every man that doesn’t practice pickup is a loser. Every woman that doesn’t love you is a dumb bitch. You’re different and special.

This chatter kept me warm at night, glowing in my intellectual superiority like a geek firefly. The ego compares you to other men because it wants to understand your station in society. It keeps you doubting and weak. It says your clothes aren’t good enough, you don’t live in the right neighborhood, your hairstyle is wrong, your job isn’t cool, your car is too old, your musical tastes are boring, and so forth.

Ego isn’t all bad. Narcissism as self-love is useful for motivation. Chicks like confidence, and even the occasional arrogance. However the conscious man is humble because he understands he’s nothing more than meat, bone, and blood. The other part, The Chatter, the Hitler, wants you to fit into a role. It wants to make sense of this fucked-up mess, this reality. It wants you to get a job in an office or a factory so you can say, “I’m head of accounts,” or “I’m an investment banker,” or “I’m a travel
blogger
,” or, “I’m a ladies’ man.”

It’s the little voice that talks of the future, where everything is fantasy, or the past, where everything is memory. The ego cannot exist in the present moment. Well, it exists. You just have to ignore it though. It’s like your retarded little cousin that you keep in the basement with a
Spongebob
dvd
set. You let him out from time to time to dig in the garden, or whatever—but then he pees on the cat, so you give him a piece of chocolate cake and send him back down.

You are only what you do right now; your actions, and the story you leave behind.

Montana
(Role playing)

I heard about a house party in the Mile End, and made my way. It was fairly packed with the usual crowd of cool kids.
Montreal
seemed like a city of eighteen to twenty-one year olds (or maybe those were the places I was seeking out). Once inside, I wasted no time making my first approach of the night. I needed to get warmed up. She was a tallish thing, brunette, like a sexy elk. “What do they feed you?” I asked her.

“Excuse me?”

“To get that tall.”

“Oh!” She laughed. “Broccoli.”

I held out my hands, palm up, trying to not project how bad I wanted this to work—but it did anyway—she placed hers there. She didn’t question it, or give me a weird look; she just dropped them there. We were holding hands! I lifted them up to my face with fingers locked together and felt a surge of confidence. Then, for no apparent reason, my nerves got the better of me… bloody nerves. When will I conquer this annoying social programming?

I started sweating and mumbling, I couldn’t hold eye contact, I tried to say something witty but it came out all garbled. She dropped my hands with an excuse about the bathroom. “Wait—what’s your number?” I asked. But she just smiled and nodded, “No,” and walked off. By this point I was so used to rejection that it was like taking a shit: It just happens. Expect it.

I pulled out my notepad and wrote about it, then I looked for the next girl. I found her. She stood in the living room talking to some guy. He looked like a softie; and she was quite pretty with big, green, anime girl eyes, long, wavy auburn hair and a button nose. She reminded me of a kitten so I walked up to her ignoring the guy and said, “You remind me of a kitten.”

“Oh my god… my spirit animal is actually a cat!” She said. (Yes, she actually said this).

I held out my hand palm up the way I did before and got the same result. We were holding hands. I love that move. Learning to be immediately physical was one of the greatest steps in my game. You don’t need to worry so much about what to say if you just grab them.

“Let me see your best kitten claw attack,” I said—so she clawed at me, with a
pouty
face and all. My member swelled with anticipation of conquest. We had a winner!

The nice boy she was with retreated, deflated. He’s not a breeder, apparently. Most of these hipster kids aren’t up for a fight. They run from the first guy who pretends to be an alpha male. I kept holding her hands and told her my spirit animal was a hawk, and I’m a kitten hunter. Her eyes expanded as I weaved the tale and she prodded me on, encouraging me. She’s a fantasy addict. Maybe a little nuts I figured. That’s ok, as long as she likes me.

“I would catch you in my claws and carry you to my nest,” I continued. “But I wouldn’t eat you; I would keep you as a member of my tribe and you would raise our chicks to hunt with your feline prowess.”

She kissed me on the cheek and said, “I would raise them as my own, and you could teach me the ways of birds.”

What a woman! What imagination! We hugged and stayed there, hip to hip, so she could feel my unit inflate against her belly.

“You wouldn’t be afraid I’d eat you?” She asked.

I scratched my chin. “No. I don’t think you would.”

Outside of the party, police sirens wailed and there was a flash of red and blue. Hipsters fell out of windows like mice in a flood, flushing their pills and snapping pictures on their
IPhones
.

“They’ve found us,” I told her.

“Let’s escape!”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her out the back door, into the alley, and pushed her against a wall. We kissed and our tongues danced as chaos erupted all around us. Life is good and full of adventure. I’m a young man in a strange and beautiful city. I dragged her, and we ran through the alley laughing, past kids throwing up, arguing, kissing.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“On an adventure to my castle.”

“I love castles!”

She loves castles. You’re in dude.

“I know, because you’re a princess.”

“I am.”

We jogged for about a block. She asked me what I was doing in
Montreal
. I told her I was a writer, seeking adventure.

“How old are you?” she asked

“Older than you.”

“How much.”

“Does it matter?”

“Well…no. I’m just curious.”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

“Oh,” she said. “You look so young. I thought you were twenty. Are you lying?”

“No. Why would I lie about that? How old are you?”

“I’m nineteen. Wait…oh, you totally use that to your advantage!”

The sirens were growing distant and we slowed to a walk.

“My advantage?” I said, pretending to be shocked. “What does that mean?”

“It’s ok. I still like you just fine. Keep telling me stories Mr. Writer. I’m a cat princess and you’re a hawk.”

I got her to my apartment and we tip-toed up past Mark’s room, through the kitchen into my room. I fell onto my bed and she pulled off her shirt, and then her bra, without me asking. Thank you Internet, thank you, thank you for helping me find the truth.

“We can’t fuck,” she said, “I’m on my period.”

“
Ohhhhh
, bummer.”

“It’s ok. Come here. Keep telling me the story.”

She pulled down my shorts, removed my cock and swallowed it as deeply as she could. My eyes rolled back into my head. It was amazing. I’m winning. As she bobbed back and forth on my unit I looked down at those big anime eyes and continued my story.

“I’m your dark knight and you are my captive princess. You want to escape but I hold your pretty head down as I have my way with you under the waterfall…”

She moaned loudly, encouraging me.

“In the distance, I, I, oh my god…you can hear the neighing of the, the Unicorns! The horns of champions blowing, holy shit, off the mystic mountains and you realize, I am not a villain, but your champion! Jesus, oh man, oh man, oh man.”

And then I let it go. I could have taken her head off. She didn’t even blink. She just looked up at me, wiped her mouth and smiled innocently. Afterwards we spooned, and I lay quietly listening to the outside noise of the city. It was easy and natural. I’m Winston Churchill, I’m Marlon
Brando
before he got fat.

I turned off the light and we fell asleep.

I heard her wake up in the morning, and glanced at her petite body as she gathered her things, silhouetted by the sunlight shining through my bedroom window. She was very sexy and youthful. I love the way women look in the morning, before they put on their makeup, straighten their hair, and cover their parts.

“Hey,” I said. “Make sure you leave your number. I want to see you again. There’s a pen on the dresser.”

She wrote it down. I walked her to the door and kissed her goodbye with a pat on the bum. I looked at the paper with her phone number. “
Montana
,” I said out loud.