A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (19 page)

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.”

One fine
Vancouver
night, I was at the
Cambie
and went outside for some air. There was a group of girls smoking and chattering things like, “Yeah totally, the
Cambie
rules,” and, “It’s a great place to get laid.” Phenomenal. Women don’t usually air
intel
like this in public. Behind closed doors, hell yeah, but not like this.

Then floated up a pretty voice from behind the group that sang, “Yeah, I want to get laid tonight.”

Behold ye students!

A fine, autumn-brown haired creature with tanned legs, D-cupped breasts, olive eyes, and Angelina
Jolie
lips, emerged from the shadows like a slender gazelle. Alarms sounded and blood rushed to the slumbering beast below. This was a woman in heat, no doubt. This is what I’d trained so vigilantly for. She stomped out her cigarette and ventured inside, swinging her bosom like a hypnotist’s watch. I made my pursuit, caught up and tapped her three times on the shoulder. She turned to meet me and her eyes were calm, inviting—not accusatory, like so many others. I grasped for something and almost stuttered before the words came.

“Hi,” I said. “I just noticed those,” pointing at her dangly earrings. “I’d like to borrow them for my fishing trip.”

She smiled. She got it. “Well they’re not mine, mister. They’re my friend’s. So you can’t have them.”

“I could rent them then.”

“Hmmm, maybe. But it would be expensive.”

I just stared at her, with a slight grin. Then I reached around her waist, picked her off the ground and spun her in a full circle, like she was six years old. She squealed. I put her down.

“What’s your name?” she asked, playing with her hair.

Yes. Yes! The Man! It’s about time…

“I’m Sebastian. Who are you here with?” I asked. Asking who she’s here with had become a habit. I didn’t have to waste time if the boyfriend was in the toilet, or if the guy that looked like a boyfriend was just some random co-worker.

She fixed her blouse. “I’m alone. I was with friends but they left. I was sitting with some guys over there, but they pissed me off.”

“Were they being losers?” I asked.

“This one guy just kept saying rude shit to me. I didn’t like it. He told me we would never get along, and then back-turned me.”

“You need to meet mine then, they’re cool. Come with me.”

I pulled her hand and she followed me to the back table, where my friends were drinking. I introduced her and we grabbed a seat. After a couple of minutes of witty flirting, I saw her wedding ring. Just my luck.

“You’re married?” I asked, disappointed.

She blushed, “Yeah. But, well…”

“What?”

“I fucking hate him.”

Bingo…Green light bro.

“Really?”

“Yeah. He’s an asshole. Totally.”

I pressed my finger to her lips, “
Shhh
. This isn’t the night to worry and fret. Tonight is for you to be free, to be young, and have fun. Tonight I want you to forget your problems.” I don’t know where these words were coming from. I was transmitting the spirit of Casanova.

I ripped a piece of paper into two long strips, wrapped one around her finger and the other around mine.

“Now we’re married, for tonight. If you fuck up,” I said, “we’ll be divorced by dawn.”

She hooked hard. I saw a sparkle, a happy little galaxy in her eye, right before I pulled her head towards mine. Her name was Jasmine. She was twenty-three, but looked eighteen, had an alcoholic, cheating, wife beater of a husband. She liked playing old-school Nintendo games like Mario Kart and Tetris. She enjoyed baking but wasn’t very good at it. She wanted to snowboard more, but was studying to be a nurse and had no money.

“My husband’s friends are here. They might see me,” she said.

It was a good enough reason to get her out of the bar. I’d never been with a married woman before, and the thought excited me. There’s something alluring about having your way with a taken woman. It’s like you destroy all of his hard work. War is strangely fulfilling. I tried not to think about all of my ex-girlfriends that cheated on me in my early twenties. I used to be in denial, that women were far more faithful than men, but that’s fiction. Women are better cheaters than we are, but they need a bit more than simple lust to push them into it. To make a good woman cheat on you, you need to really mess up. The bad ones, not so much.

“Ok, let’s go,” I told her.

She looked at her cell phone before answering me.

“No, it’s ok. I should go home.”

“Nonsense woman. My friends are going to the Lamplighter. Come with us.”

I wasn’t going to let her get away that easily. She just didn’t want to feel like a slut. As usual, it had to be my fault. The Eternal Recurrence, an endless loop of the inevitable.

“Well,” she said, pondering, “I guess I could go. How about I meet you there?”

I let that hang for about two seconds. “No way. I’m not letting you out of my sight. There are wolves about.”

If she met someone she figured was funnier, handsomer, taller than me, I’d be done. Or I’d be forced into a cockfight. We were arm in arm walking down the street when I heard a booming male voice yell, “Hey asshole, she’s a married woman!” Jasmine looked back, but remained cool, unconcerned. She was mine now. At least for tonight.

“Do you know that guy?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

We walk two blocks to meet my friends at the Lamplighter, but there was a crowd gathered around the door. There was also a police cruiser. We got closer and the door was blocked off with yellow police tape and bloody gore was spread across the ground. It looked like jam on burnt toast.

“What happened?” I asked someone.

“Oh some guy got stabbed in the chest.”

“
Woa
.”

Jasmine looked worried. This was bad. Maybe she wanted to flee. Blood on the ground is a bad omen. Senseless violence…it was probably over a woman. I needed to escape this evil scene. Then I spotted a taxi and hailed it. I ushered her inside.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

I put my hand on her firm thigh and gave it a squeeze. “Chateau Sebastian of course; the best club in town. It has wine and comfy furniture.”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said, pulling slowly at her hair. “It’s getting late.”

“
Pssshaw
!” I replied as I sucked on her earlobe.

We drove towards the chateau and kissed and fondled and laughed, a scene I was becoming familiar with. I’m not letting this girl go, I thought. She’s fantastic; beautiful and charming. The sort of girl I fantasized about during my lonely man-boy with boobs adolescence. Again, the kind of girl I thought I would never have. The reason I left a good girlfriend, quit my job, my band, and
travelled
across the country to go out seven nights a week practicing seduction. Then I remembered that she was married, and I ran the likely risk of being murdered by her husband. I was willing to pay the price.

We got to my apartment and I walked her straight into my bedroom. I turned around to take off my jacket and empty my pockets. When I turned back, Jasmine had removed most of her clothing except her bra and panties. She looked like a million broken promises made right; all tits and leg and smooth pale skin.

“Oh, my god,” I gasped. She laughed and moved towards me. I promised myself I would fuck her good. I’d had plenty of practice and had come a long way. I’d prove that she made the right choice. I won’t come as soon as I get in. I won’t say anything dumb, or have any pecker problems.

She got on her knees, unzipped and pulled it out. I only let her work it for twenty seconds before I sensed the looming explosion and stopped her. It had just been too long. All that kissing at the bar and wondering what those great big breasts would look like…and there they were, pink nipples and all! I laid her back onto the bed. “You’re not getting it that easy!” I said as I yanked off her panties.

She laughed.

So that’s the key, I figured. If you’re going to say dumb shit you have to believe it. I wasn’t about to give it to her easy, because I probably wouldn’t see her again.

I kissed around her pussy, never on her pussy, until she started shoving her hips forward up and off the bed. I got my fingers in there and tickled, up and to the right, on the G-spot, and that’s where it was apparently because she freaked. Her perfume smelled of flora and all that long hair was maddening. I flipped her onto her side and eased myself in there. I’d go at it hard, then slow, then in round little circles, then hard as I could while pulling her hair, licking her neck, biting her lip and saying things like, “Oh you’re pussy feels so tight. You’re so fucking hot, and bad. You’re bad!” I wanted to work her mind, her body, be loving and dominant. I wanted her to remember the night she was with Sebastian the master pickup artist.