A Thousand Tiny Failures

By Tony D

Copyright © 2012 Tony D

Kindle Edition 2013

www.absoluteability.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Child Soldiers

Chapter 2 -Transmogrification

Chapter 3 - Esther

Chapter 4 - Spirituous

Chapter 5 - Luv

Chapter 6 - Montreal 2008

Chapter 7- Rooftop Combat

Chapter 8 - Misandry

Chapter 9 - Olivia

Chapter 10 - Factotum

Chapter 11 - Confessions

Chapter 12 -  Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll

Chapter 13 - The Lair

Chapter 14 - Montana

Chapter 15 - Lara

Chapter 16 - Epiphanies

Chapter 17 - Sarah

Chapter 18 - Orgasms

Chapter 19 - “Good girl?”

Chapter 20 - Abode

Chapter 21 - Penticton

Chapter 22 - Les Trois, Part 1: Carly

Chapter 23 – Les Trois, Part 2: Liz vs. Dianna

Chapter 24 - Blowjobs and Validation

Chapter 25 - Number Three

Chapter 26 - Two down, one to go

Chapter 27 - Vancouver

Chapter 28 - Rickard Yang

Chapter 29 - The Pua

Chapter 30 - Con men of love

Chapter 31- Sand Pussy

Chapter 32 - She’s Married

Chapter 33 - Madonna Whore Complex

Chapter 34 - Frosted Flakes

Chapter 35 - New Year, New Woman

Chapter 36 - Victoria

Chapter 37 - Beauty is Only Skin Deep

Chapter 38 - Montreal, La Deuxième Partie

Epilogue :   The Four Thousand Islands, Laos, 2013

Chapter 1

Child Soldiers. (Mommy, Where’s Daddy?)

I tried to shove the kid off my chest, but I’d already given up. His pink fists pummelled my pimpled face but I was too timid… too mentally weak to even try and defend myself. I’d seen fights in movies. I knew how to swing a punch; you just wind up and toss—but nobody ever told me how to think like a fighter. Not yet anyway. Besides, every man should have his ass kicked at least once just for the experience.

“Hahah! You have tits, you pussy!” His spittle landed on my face.

And I did. I was a skinny boy with perky little man boobs; my genetic curse. I blame milk and power lines and bad luck. I sort of hated myself.

“Hit him back Sebastian!” the other kids screamed. The little bastards wanted blood.

“Yeah hit me… you bitch!” he complained.

But I wouldn’t. I just lay there, eleven years old and as compliant as Rodney King on opium. Fight back? That would hurt. I stared up at my former friend’s face and saw disgust, pity, and disappointment. He would be my friend again tomorrow.

This wasn’t a protest against violence—I just didn’t know what to do. Nobody had ever hit me before. He slapped me once on the cheek and got off. The other kids shook their heads and rode off on their bikes; the warm summer air blowing across their cherubic faces, past their safe, middle class neighborhoods, spitting and laughing and throwing rocks at dogs and cats and each other.

Life is beautiful. Children are great.

I dusted off and went back inside to play with my little sisters.

“What were you doing Sebastian?”

“We were play-fighting.”

“Did you win?”

“… Yes.”

I went into my mom’s room and called my own phone number, waited for my sisters to answer and pretended I was Santa Claus. “Make sure you scratch your brothers back whenever he asks! Ho Ho Ho!”

“Ok Santa.”

My childhood was mostly nice and safe. I was raised by a single mom; a beautiful, resourceful, sweet and creative woman who, although loved me deeply, was unable to impart one of a boy’s most important lessons… how to be a man.

I don’t remember when I discovered my boy-tits, but one day there they were, the bastards. This horrid conundrum is usually called, Gynecomastia, and affects tens of thousands of broken men worldwide. I was baffled. I mean, whose god did I enrage to be cursed? Fuck my life.

My generation is the divorce generation: Alimony for moms and freedom for dads. When my mother met my father she was deciding on whether to go for food, or play pool. She chose pool and my dad picked her up at the pool hall. If she’d gone left instead of right, I never would have been born, or I’d be a squirrel, or a jade Buddha, or Michael Jackson’s left testicle.

My father was a semi-deadbeat. Not that he didn’t pay child support and spoil me at Christmas. He had us for summer vacations, but generally wasn’t around. I don’t blame him. I like cities too, and I didn’t care at the time. Kids are too interested in swimming and lighting fires and make-believing to wonder where their dad is. Anyway, I had my mom’s boyfriends to learn from, but they were always careful with their wisdom lest they give the wrong advice and piss off Mom.

There would be about one boyfriend every two or four years. That was the cycle. My mom would keep them around until they screwed up, acted possessive, or drank too much. I liked all of them. They taught me cool things like how to shoot guns, ride motorcycles, play guitar, chop wood, slay furry animals… that sort of stuff. She always liked the bad boys. They were long haul truck drivers, Harley Davidson enthusiasts, rodeo cowboys, street fighting champs, big game hunters, and Vietnam war vets. So it’s surprising I ended up so… nice. Remember this when talking to a kid: they watch, they learn, and then they forget. So your words and actions become their minds… their twisted little identities.

When she dumped them, she worried whether we’d be traumatized. I never really cared though. I’d moved around so much at a young age that I’d learned independence. I was somewhat of an introvert already; I didn’t need anyone—except when it came to girls. They were fascinating and terrifying, and I had no clue—which is ironic because I teach men how to pick up girls for a living.

I watched the local kids go swimming, date, play shirts vs. skins soccer games and enjoy the summertime sun on their bare skin. I never took my shirt off—that would be the greatest of horrors. I was a shy, depressed, freak. This made elementary school somewhat horrible, which was nothing compared to high school. Post primary education ensures that the illusion of social equality is rightly crushed. Society has a place for you, whether you like it or not. Luckily, if you’re reading this book you’re one of the smart ones…you read. You can improve things. Well, maybe not if you’re from Cambodia.

I identified with the anger and disillusionment of punk music. I broke from what I considered, “the herd of conformist jocks, sellouts, and hippies.” After hearing Smells like Teen Spirit, by Nirvana, I decided I wanted to be a rock star. One of Mom’s boyfriends bought me an electric guitar for seventy-five dollars, and I practiced obsessively because guys in bands are cool; guys in bands get ass.

I also loved anything escapist and lost myself in books, movies, and video games. This digestion shaped my distaste for group-think. Movies like A Clockwork Orange, Natural Born Killers, and The Matrix. Bands like Minor Threat, The Misfits, Nirvana, The Dead Kennedys, and Operation Ivy. Books like 1984, Catcher in The Rye, The Chrysalids, On the Road, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and Lord of the Rings. Art that cheered for the underdog and thrived on the fringes. Nineties kids were pissed off. Most kids are. But it wasn’t just teen age angst…I had tits. I had teen-age man-titty angst, and I wanted to hide inside my imagination where everything was awesome.

Girls tried to flirt with me but I always screwed it up. They thought I was cute; this shy, long-haired teenager with dimples and middle finger fuck you’s, hand painted onto his jeans. I wondered if they noticed under my incredibly baggy t-shirts that I had boobs. I thought about this obsessively—like a dog that chews one spot until it’s bald. I told myself I didn’t deserve attention; I was a loser and it’s cool to be a loser. I mean, at the time the biggest song on the radio was Loser, by Beck. Negativity was encouraged in the nineties.

I talked to a few girls in my classes but I would get nervous and say dumb shit, like how the world is fucked and everyone’s a stupid sheep, or that we’re all living an Orwellian prophecy come true. Rest assured this strategy failed. I couldn’t hold eye-contact, I slouched, spoke in submissive whispers, and dressed like a grunge hippie. I was waiting for a girl to see me for who I was…on the inside. They did! It’s true what they say… that nobody will love you if you don’t love yourself. Not like your grandma loves you, I mean more like I want your penis in my vagina love you.

The first girlfriend was in eighth grade. She was a busty, dirty blond: a volleyball star. After stalking her from the bleachers for a year, I schemed to make friends with her friends, break into her social circle and get at her boobies. And I did. It was very Machiavellian. I ditched my elementary school crew and started wearing dress shirts and loafers like the rich kids. The rich kids accepted me and introduced me to my volleyball star. Through extreme palpitations I asked, “Do you want to go out with me?”

“Hmm. Ok!” She shrugged.

What luck! Hers were the first breasts I ever touched. Oh joy of joys! I would go to her house and make out with her for hours, until my groin ached so bad I’d want to be sick, then I’d ride my bike home and furiously masturbate as quietly as possible, praying my sisters wouldn’t hear. I probably could have banged her, but I was fourteen and had no clue how to make that miracle happen. Plus, I’d have to take my shirt off.

She dumped me after two months. “Can we be friends?” she asked.

I was jealous, needy, and insecure. I cried a few times, or a few dozen maybe. I called her and begged her to take me back. I left roses on her doorstep at midnight. I wrote poems about my devotion and taped them to her locker. My reward for this gallantry was having her humiliate me in the school hallway by yelling, “Sebastian, I DON’T LIKE YOU ANYMORE!” To prove it she made out with her new boyfriend—the bloody captain of the rugby team. How cliché is that? He had a, “sorry for you bro,” look on his face. He knew I didn’t get it yet. It’s the same way I’ve looked at other guys when I stole their girls. It feels good to be him, the winner.

I looked her up on Facebook once. She’d gained twenty pounds. Still pretty in her late twenties, but close to hitting the wall. I sent her a message:

“You were my first girlfriend. I still remember. I was pretty pathetic.”

She replied:

“Oh really!? I didn’t think so. I was such a slut back then.”

I sent:

“Wow. That’s funny. I’m such a slut now.”

They say men age like wine, and women age like cheese. Of course, there are specialty cheese shops, but they’re rare and expensive. And most men are more like a box-wine, not a fine Shiraz. If it’s war you seek, we’re at the advantage there. Don’t pity them; when they’re sixteen to twenty-five, (if they’re beautiful), they’re spoiled as they want.

Ah misogyny. If you think that’s me, you should be reading Harry Potter, because this book is about reality, not a magic wonderland. But if you still wish to roam Hogwarts, believe in magic. Be positive. Positivity is the universal key. I feel that I’ve been good to people and have little bad karma. This is the story of how I freed myself from the tyranny of the mind: by banging lots of girls. I hope it helps you. But it may do the opposite. Not my fault. Just saying.

One lucky summer I managed to lose my virginity, fairly young at fifteen years old, to a well-endowed blond two years my senior. She pretty much raped me one fine afternoon in my best friend’s grandma’s spare bedroom. She had these enormous, magnificent, seventeen year old breasts that you could just motorboat all night. Angie was my good friend’s very recent ex, and she was already eager for a new dick. I don’t know why, maybe she had daddy issues. I didn’t question it. She approached me while I was sitting at a Dairy Queen, placed her hand under the table, and massaged my boy-shaft. “Take me somewhere we can fuck,” she commanded. Grandma was at a three-day crockery show, we had the keys, so off we went.

When I plunged into her I came in about thirty seconds. “You can go again!” she ordered, and worked her magic. I manned up and gave it to her silently, missionary position, for about forty-five minutes. “Make some noise!” she demanded. So I made a few grunts, and pumped and jabbed and poked and licked until I was drenched and drained. I couldn’t come twice. I didn’t have it in me. She rolled over, turned her back, and refused my adoring, sweaty cuddles. Goodbye virginity.

In the following days, she cut me off. Word around town was that her ex-boyfriend, the town fist-fighting champ, was hunting me. When he finally found me all the menace left him. “Sebastian, I can’t blame you man. You’re too nice, and her tits are too big.” He gave me a hug and we smoked a joint. His entourage was disappointed. She used me for sex. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

I had one girlfriend for a month in grade ten and managed to have sex four times, which was better than most, but pretty bad. She wasn’t a great catch, so I let her go. I’ve always had standards higher than my ability, and I’ve rejected more than I’ve captured.

After high school, I moved to Vancouver to live with and work in my dad’s furnace repair company. He was a failed ladies man, an arrogant charmer, unconscious of the concept of ego and internal chatter—and a closet cocaine addict/manic-depressive. If I learned anything from him, it was masculinity and work ethic. I also learned we weren’t much alike, except for our fondness of beautiful women. We’d spot them from the van like pro birdwatchers.

“Dad, look at that one.”

“Jesus Christ—look at that ass!”

“Hell yeah.”

“Go talk to her.”

“No way.”

And off we’d drive to work and argue for the next eight hours.

He was a funny guy—when he wasn’t being a jerk. He could tease my stepmother to tears of laughter and the next day bring her to tears of rage. He had a mind for seduction too. He’d tease me for not having a girl. I think, as did many, he figured I was a bit queer, ya know, a fag. Not that he was homophobic; he wasn’t.

He was such a proud father when I finally convinced a girl to come over to my house. When I couldn’t make it back from her place one night, so her dad wouldn’t find out, she made me sleep in her walk-in closet. If that happened today, I’d laugh at her, pull out my dick and poke her in the eye with it. I didn’t tell him that she already friend-zoned me.

Chicks dig musicians, and I’m a narcissist, so I started a punk-band. It doesn’t matter if you suck as long as you’re on stage. Even if you look like post-lava Darth Vader, if you’re slightly famous, girls will hook up with you. Even Danny DeVito can pull ass. Take a fat, bald midget, put him on tv, and he’ll have beautiful women scratching out each other’s eyes to get at his dick.

Status is power. My self-esteem increased with every chick that would have me, which wasn’t many—maybe two a year. Still, they weren’t the kind of girls I really wanted. They were low hanging fruit, opportunities of chance, not choice. But the more I got on stage and expressed myself, the more popular I became.

At night, I would do push-ups and stare at myself in the mirror, squeezing and punching my chest. I hated having tits. I wasn’t fat. Why me? And here I was all-sad, and in some third world country kids are shooting each other over diamonds. Every year a million people drink and drug themselves to mask their depression. Most of this pain is created by self-image. You have a vision of who you think you are. It’s like a tv channel in your head. For many, it’s a horror movie, for others it’s a loving romance full of adventure. You can’t change your past, but you can change how you look and feel. You can write a new script for that movie in your skull.

When I was twenty-one I found a girlfriend; a hot little polish thing. She was crazy, as many hot girls are. We dated for two years and, still, this was my longest relationship. If I knew about game back then, I never would have stayed that long. I was depressed about my man-boobs; the only reason she stayed was because her dad beat the shit out of her and she had worse self-esteem than I did. Also, she used to read my poems and told me I was, “sort of a genius.” I didn’t think so, but it’s nice to be appreciated.

That same year, I quit installing furnaces for my dad. No more being yelled at about missing screwdrivers and traveling from job to job in awkward silences. He was a cocaine addict. You wouldn’t know it though. The guy was charming—but there was a monkey riding a demon riding a gorilla on his back. He would rage over stupid shit, like if people drove too slow, he’d chase them down on the freeway and yell out the window, “Where did you learn to drive asshole!” And then he’d go back to normal, smiling and smoking his cigarettes, all peaceful like, as if nothing abnormal had transpired. Maybe he should have been a soldier.

If we ate at a restaurant, and the service was disappointing, he’d demand the manager and bitch him out. “Dad, it’s Dennys,” I’d say. He’d just grunt and chew, happy that he’d illuminated another imbecile’s mediocrity. It’s weird that men pay me for the same service.

He was incredibly intelligent, very ambitious—noble hearted and all—but broken. Mom said he read self-help books like How to Win Friends and Influence People, but I couldn’t tell. He needed something like Yoga, or Scientology, or anything that would quiet the eternal chatter in his angry head. It’s amazing I’m not more messed up than I am.

Sometimes he’d get high at work, and sometimes I liked him better that way, because he’d talk about interesting things—like good movies and pussy. When he was straight, he bored me.

You’re better than him, that’s why.

I was to carry on the family business. Woo-fucking-hoo. A lifetime of spidering through dusky basements, repairing heaters and hot-water tanks for captive suburbanites; a perpetual-monotony machine. I’m in a first world country, why subject myself to servitude? I could be a rock star, a poet, a big game hunter, a pot dealer. Anything else.

All the drugs and anti-social behavior ruined his business. He missed sales meetings, skipped work, and fell into heavy debt. One night he got too fucked up and wandered around the backyard without pants or underwear on, swingin it—free and oblivious—lost in his Nirvana. The neighbor caught him, and of course they pressed charges, so he was labeled a sex offender and forced into rehab. He wasn’t a pervert, just pissed off, like most of us. Drugs always start as a great idea.

He went and got better—for a while. He fixed the business, but crack is a powerful drug and he started using again. My stepmother was ready to bail, and would take my two half-brothers with her. I was twenty-one, dying for independence, and hated living around all this bullshit; fighting with my dad, fighting with my stepmother. They all thought I was a lazy daydreamer, which I was. So one day after a scrap over something petty I walked off the job. I just said, “Fuck you Dad,” and walked away. He asked me to come back but I told him I was never coming back. I wasn’t mean about it, it just wasn’t for me. I didn’t want that life of suburban furnace repair. I didn’t want to be stuck to anybody or anything. I guess I still don’t.

One cool evening he parked his van in a dark alley, drank a liter of vodka and shot up a needle full of cocaine into his vein. He didn’t wake up. They found him there like that, on the wheel, vomit on his lap, maybe smiling, I don’t know.

We weren’t hysterical or anything. We sort of expected it, like waiting for toast to pop. The sadness comes later when you’re organizing your sock drawer, or doing the dishes, or watching South Park. Crying is best when you think you’re alone, and someone catches you and asks, “What’s wrong?” That’s how it happened, trying to be quiet in the back of a car with a girl that didn’t want to fuck me.

Funerals just suck. There’s no mystery. Either you cry or you don’t, and everyone wonders if they should, or if they could. But it’s easy; just give yourself permission and let biology drive. Crying is like an orgasm; it feels great and leaves a mess—it clears your mind and calms your soul.

There was a note for my stepmother. She asked me if I wanted to read it, and if I wanted to see his body.

“No. That’s okay, thanks.”

Depressed yet? Don’t be. There’ll be heaps of dick jokes and debauchery ahead. My view is this: People die. Wax on wax off. By the way, I’m gonna die, you’re gonna die, your grandpa is probably dead, that housefly you swatted and left it’s guts on the wall had feelings, an elephant in China lost its tusks, a midget wants to be tall, a Korean girl bleached her skin white. It’s all gonna end, and I’m fine with that. I just hope it doesn’t hurt too much.

Most of us are searching for a certainty that if we follow the rules, it will all work out. But it won’t. I’m prepared for failure. Maybe a plane crash or zombie apocalypse. I’ve thought about doing myself in a few times, maybe with a big explosion, or gummed to death by a whale shark—but who hasn’t? We’re alive, and we’ll expire. It’s all around you, heaps of death: snake bites and boating accidents and teary, family destroying cancers. When I’m gone, I’ll pimp the astral plane. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of not living.

The years ticked on and I played in a few punk bands, started and dropped out of video game college, whored myself in warehouses and convenience stores and dated a few girls that cheated, or dumped me. Depression arrived and I made love to weed, booze, and video games. I’ve slayed ogres, wizards, and Russians. I’ve lived immortal inside virtual worlds. Yes, I’m a nerd.

At twenty-four, I found a job installing home theater systems for rich jerks. I didn’t like it. I was on construction sites all day and there were no women. I needed women. I needed to see swinging asses and titties and pretty smiles. Because of this I knew I could never be a monk. I’m not that Zen. There was a hole needed fillin.

It wasn’t an artistic job. It was cold hard labor only slightly superior to installing furnaces. But the pay kept me self-sustained: stoned, drunk, sheltered, entertained and fed. Just, not laid. One day I was asked to train a few newbies on some software. Instead, out of laziness, I wrote a manual and emailed it. I fucked around and made it funny. Some comments about Syphilis and the Sphinx or something. It was all right. The next day my boss took me aside.

“Sebastian. What are you doing here? At this job? It’s not for you.”

“Why? I’m not bad at it,” I said, offended.

“Sebastian, this manual is fantastic. It’s funny and well written. You should be a writer, or a philosopher. You’re not a laborer.”

“Yeah, but, well…”

“Sebastian,” he said, placing both his hands on the desk. “You’re not right for this. You’re a writer.”

I didn’t know whether to slap or hug him. Was he masturbating my ego so I’d quit and he could hire a real laborer? All it takes is one person to believe in you, and off you go down the rainbow to your dreams or whatever.

I wrote articles for music rags. I wasn’t destined for journalism, but I learned to write. It was cool. I got into shows free and met a bunch of rock stars. Arty chicks were interested in my job and wanted to hang out with me, so that I’d write about them. But even with my hip, music journalist status, I was still a sad, man-boobed man who couldn’t pull ass.

One night at a party one of my friends slapped me on the back and said, “Y’know what? I like drunk Sebastian the best!”

Really? So I drank more. When I drank, I became something better. I forgot about my tits and insecurities and anger and loneliness. When I went to parties, I’d be social, funny and charming. Women noticed this. I’d catch them flirting with me, winking coyly, poking my soft belly, or pointing at my dimples. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to get them to fuck me… not the ones I wanted anyway. I didn’t see the method; just that alcohol for me was like spinach to Popeye: Eyyy, kkyye, kyye. Sluts!

I had a pellet gun, and at night I would hold it to my head and pretend it was real. I’d stare in the mirror at my titties and punch the walls. At twenty-six years old, I hadn’t been laid in two years, and it was fucking me up. For a young man to feel content, he needs to be able to attract women. We will lie and say things like, I don’t care about chicks—they don’t matter. Bullshit man. It’s genetic. We need you. Most of us aren’t Buddhist and we haven’t renounced the pleasures of the flesh, or the experience of emotion. We need your skin, your smell, your love and attention. To have no choice, no ability, is to be denied the human experience and be a slave to genetic and societal circumstance.

I felt like a pathetic runt of the litter, as many men do. I had all this talent and couldn’t attract a girlfriend. What would I need to do? Sell a million records? Write a best seller? Take steroids? I’ve always been fascinated by women and felt I deserved the best of them.

When I was six years old, I had a vivid dream of lying in a bed and holding hands with a redheaded classmate I’d been crushing on. I didn’t even understand what crushing was. It wasn’t even sexual. It was just an exchange of energy, a deep feeling, like a psychic understanding or massive unresolved gastric anomaly. My most romantic moments have always been in my dreams. Reality is much harsher. Reality is a punch to the nut sack; it’s hurts long and slow, the peaceful painless moments are taken for granted, and the rest is spent avoiding more pain.

One day in 2006, I sat drunk at my computer and searched, ‘man tits.’ There were pages and pages of information on something called, Gynecomastia. I even found a whole forum with over ten thousand members, all men, asking each other whether or not they should just suck it up and get liposuction on their pathetic little man-boobie chests. The resounding voice was for surgery (because money can buy happiness). It wasn’t that expensive either; just a thousand dollars—which any ambitious first-world asshole can manifest.

I bought a ticket to see a surgeon in Toronto, waited an agonizing month, flew there, and got my tits removed. That was it. The doctor anesthetized me and in twenty minutes had sliced out the swollen glands. He kept them in a mason jar and asked me if I wanted them.

“Uhhh, no, thanks,” I said.

I was wrapped in bandages, loaded with morphine, and sent back to my hotel to spend a few days in Toronto while I healed.

One night I was walking around the city feeling awesome, and a very pretty drunk girl charged across a busy street, nearly killing herself, grabbed my arm and yelped, “You’re hot!” Then before I could reply, she was dragged away by her fat friend into the manic city night. I had no idea what to do, but I liked being hit on. It really felt good. Validation is powerful. She approached me because of my energy; my positive glow was contagious. The way she came at me, her vibe, it’s the same way I try to attract women now, with a force-like radiance of awesome. You can pull women by emanating love. I mean, you should also be a badass, but be a happy badass that farts joy from every pore. It’s hard to love people, because they suck. But fake it. Do it for the pussy and love. If you fake it enough you’ll become what you pretend to be.

I needed to figure out this girl problem, and fast. Just because I had a normal chest meant nothing to anyone but me. Insecurity is funny like that. I took the flight back to Vancouver, where my roommates joked that I went to Toronto for the gay pride festival. They couldn’t see a difference because they never noticed my chest—only I did—because the human mind is constantly grinding and comparing equations that mean nothing. I didn’t tell anyone about my surgery because I was embarrassed. So yeah, they thought I was a fag.

No, they were teasing, I think.

Maybe we’re all capable of being gay but choose not to. Think about it, bro. Smiley face.

I felt like a ten-thousand pound weight had been lifted. I had a second chance at life. I’d never been happier. To this day whenever I feel down, I remember how I used to be. Nothing seems as bad… such is the power of vanity.

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.

Chapter 2

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.

Chapter 3

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.

Chapter 4

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.”

Chapter 5

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.

Chapter 6

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.

Chapter 7

Rooftop Combat

(Mario is a Cock-block, Wario is misunderstood, the Princess is overrated)

The majority of the Anglos (foreigners, Farang) worked in call centers… so I found work in a call center. It was bullshit slavery, as all jobs seem to be…but at least I could practice my verbal game by selling crap to strangers. And lots of young girls, on break from university, worked there. After the day was over I would ride my bike home, power nap, watch pickup dvd’s and then go out. I was on day twenty-seven straight of going out and still hadn’t picked up a girl.

Eric had become my de-facto wingman. He was more into getting fucked up that picking up girls, but he was smart and full of conspiracy theories about corporate agendas, which was entertaining.

“They control the food, the banks, the media,” he told me, while sucking back a cup of Asian msg-noodles.

It was all interesting but I didn’t see how this knowledge would help me get laid. I’d already been through my punk rock-angst stage, but I humored him. He also taught me how to find free vegetables in dumpsters, how to sneak into movies via back doors, and how to scam booze at the bar by stealing pitchers when people weren’t looking. This all helped, since I was broke. It’s amazing how easy it is to get by on nothing in Canada.

Montreal has flat roofs and if it’s warm, there’s always a rooftop party. One humid night he took me to one. I patrolled around scouting chicks, trying my best to be charming and doing alright. Most of the pretty girls found me amusing but weren’t feeling the love. My hair was shaved short and I felt scary looking. Eric called me, “Sebastian the Skinhead.” I knew the girls would feel whatever I felt and I didn’t feel good. I had far too much trepidation. Nothing a half a dozen beer couldn’t fix. I finally got a solid buzz on and met a cute girl that was willing to listen to my odd questions like, “Who would win in a fight, two hundred midgets with pitchforks and body armor, or one T-Rex?”

“Oh, definitely the T-Rex, he would stomp them.”

“Au contraire!” I replied. “Midgets though small, are very strong. They could run up his tail and gouge the Rex’s eyes out.”

“No. The T-Rex is huge. It would win.”

“You’re not my dad.”

“What?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a commotion. I looked over and Eric was arguing with some tall lanky scenester guy. This dude was pushing his finger into Eric’s chest and spitting into his face, “Where’s my money, you shit!?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Give it to me, you shit.”

“Dude, I said I’m broke!”

I’ve got issues with bullies. Actually, I was craving combat. Nearly a month of hitting on girls and not getting laid, my over-abundance of testosterone boiled my blood. I finished my beer and marched over, mentally preparing for battle. I didn’t know yet that Eric was a brutal drug fiend and this guy was his junkie wingman. I approached the tall guy.

“Hey, I think you should lay off,“ I said.

He looked at me, then at Eric, then at me, took a drag from his cigarette, and walked away.

Yeah, you’re a tough guy.

So I went back to talking with girls. I was doing pretty well too. Most of them were nice to me now, some very cute ones too. I asked one for her number and I got it. I was getting really proficient at collecting phone numbers and Facebook addresses, even though almost all of them were fakes, or they didn’t answer or text back. As I was punching one into my phone, I noticed Eric and the lanky dude near the end of the rooftop, within a cloud of dust from their scuffling. Lanky guy had Eric in a headlock and was getting ready to feed him shots with his fists.

“Fuck this guy,” I said to a girl, shoving the phone into my pocket.

Sebastian of old would have watched from a distance, but Sebastian the pua warrior started a slow, semi-drunken jog, fully committed to kicking this guy’s ass.

Full intent, full belief. Go bro. Everyone’s watching.

From about twenty feet away I yelled, “Hey fucker!”

He released Eric’s head and looked up in time to take my body slam. His knees were at the same height as a low ledge, so he flew head over heels, like a spinning rag doll, off the roof only four feet down, but onto his head. His face slid across the gravel and he laid there motionless until the dust settled.

Silence.

A gasp, and then another.

Someone lit a joint.

A few people laughed and, omg’d.

I thought I’d killed him.

So that was my fate… I’d be a prison bitch. My sphincter would be destroyed and I’d trade cigarettes for favor and ferry parcels between gangs. I’d have to join the Arians for protection. Do they need writers in jail?

And then gopher like, he popped up, stabilized, and swept the dirt from his face with his skinny arms.

“Heeeey maan, that wasn’t cool!” he said.

Then he pulled a package of smokes from his shorts, removed a green lighter from the pack, lit one, climbed the ladder and walked back to the party.

The music started up and they all went back to the same.

These people are… something is wrong with them.

I didn’t know yet, but many of Eric’s friends were junkies-in-training. They were just so clean and young. But like experienced child soldiers, you could see it in their bovine drug eyes.

I’d never smashed someone before, and I felt guilty. Is this what warriors feel like after they’ve slaughtered their enemies? Adrenaline, pride, and shame?

You’re very enigmatic.

“Hey bro, I’m going home,” I said to Eric.

“Sure man. Whatevs,” he said, and then he walked over and hugged the lanky guy.

What the hell?

I felt sad like I’d never comprehend the human condition. I climbed down the ladder and left the party without saying goodbye. Very childish of me, I know.

As I pedaled my way home past the bagel shops, cute little parks and cafés and bars, I looked back towards the roof-party, and laughed.

Chapter 8

Misandry (Epic fails)

I stood on the pavement, outside the shitty club, and every critical rejection hit me, chopped a piece out, and knocked me down. But this was a good experience—the worst of it. Every fighter needs to have his ass kicked a few times to toughen up.

“Get away from us, hairy chest man!” The drunk nineteen year old girl yelled.

“Yeah!” Hairy chest man!” Her friend frothed.

“Button your shirt, hairy chest man! You’re ugly!” The third chimed in.

And all this hate, simply because I made a joke about Jessica Alba having sex with dolphins. It was an article I’d read that day in the paper. I merely suggested that animals might make better lovers than men under certain circumstances, and perhaps she had enjoyed it. It wasn’t meant as a provocation, but some bitches be lookin for a fight. Sometimes they just freak out because they’re either a. stupid, b. drunk, c. crazy, or any combination thereof. Throw in the occasional lesbian, feminist studies major, or misandrist man hater—it’s dangerous out there.

“Go away, why are you still here? Button your shirt.”

“He doesn’t get it. I don’t think he’s listening.”

“Why does he just stand there? Go away.”

“He’s stupid. Why doesn’t he leave?”

“Maybe he’s retarded.”

“He’s dumb.”

“Get away from us. We don’t like you.”

“Go away… please!”

I stood there and stared at them, smiling politely, occasionally shifting my weight from the right to left foot, arms crossed behind my back to expose my vulnerable heart. Stab away you cunts! (Btw, I rarely say the word, ‘cunt,” but on occasion I think it. People think all kinds of things we don’t plan on saying. So don’t be all cunty about it).

Eventually they sighed and walked off into the bar asking each other what had just happened, and what’s wrong with him? I looked down at my chest. I considered buttoning the top button… and decided against it. It wasn’t so bad. At least they didn’t call me Hairy Tit-Man.

I walked outside the bar into a French pizzeria and found a short girl wearing a tight, sky-blue dress. I told her that she reminded me of a Smurf, so she puffed her chest and squealed, “You better up yo game buddy! You better up yo game!”

Her friends had to hold her back while she tried to claw at me, all beastly.

“I just thought she was cute! Smurfs are cute!”

“Then why didn’t you say that, oh my gawd? It was so rude!” They pulled her away and made their escape.

Eric and I laughed, and ate our pizza.

I went into a different bar and ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer. Ten minutes later I regained my stamina, walked past the dance floor to the high tables and tried to grab a girl from a group of four tall, handsome types. I pushed myself onto her, and she seemed into it. “You should come for a walk. Adventure time,” I said. “Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“Well, I, umm…”

“Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“Hee hee!”

“Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“I can’t, my friends are here,” she said, motioning at the four men standing beside us at the counter, clutching their beers. As my charms faltered, one of the baboons hip checked me. I landed four feet to the right, and deflected off a table, sending an empty beer mug onto the floor, shattering it. I stood there as they formed a protective shell around her, from which to mock me.

Believe, be present, remain positive, take action, ignore consequence, learn from experience.

I walked straight back, tapped her on the shoulder and when she looked, I grabbed her hand and pulled. Submission and doe-eyes.

Wow, she liked it. You… are rad.

Full intent, full belief. It was a tactic I’d read about, like grabbing a kitten by the scruff, they go limp. Caveman style domination… I’m awesome, a beast lord.

“Look,” I said, holding her waist as she pressed her ear against my cheek, “despite your incredibly rude friends, I’m still willing to take you out next week. So, what’s your number?”

There was no upwards inflection in my voice. I just said, “What’s your number,” like a hypnotic command. Balls of diamond. It was they, (her man-friends) who were keeping us apart. Delusional confidence, almost verging on the absurd. Lies become reality, an Airbender of the highest order.

The bravado paid off and she gave it to me, one hand on my neck as she typed it in. The orchish men relented. Maybe they respected my persistence in the face of adversity. I released her, strolled out of the bar and rode my bike in a princely state, inhaling the crisp night air. I had to work in the morning, but there were still two parties left. I could stay out late tonight, I figured.

Take tomorrow off, stay home for a change. You deserve a rest. Maybe you could invite her to that party tomorrow, maybe you could continue your aggressive style, maybe I could finally get laid.

It was genius, a full frontal assault. I stopped and checked her number.

What was that? A one or a two? A four or an eight?

Fuck.

Laaaaaame.

Whatever dude. People suck.

I looked up at Mount Royal, proudly silhouetted by the moonlight. It must have seen some shit, I thought.

I’d been practicing for ninety-three days.

Chapter 9

Olivia (The Age of Aquarius)

I saw her seated, like a sunflower in gravel, with boys at every angle trying their best chat her up. It was another Montreal rooftop party inhabited by hipster kids; comparing tattoos, throwing up, looking cool for the girls. She was wearing a trashy looking leopard skin skirt, but it looked purposely trashy, like a funny fake tattoo. Her hair was dyed red and she had sleepy, stoner eyes—just like me. Or maybe she was stoned. I don’t doubt it. Her mouth had a perfect little heart shape at the top and her skin was pale and lightly freckled.

I had a boner.

Ok man, I’ll stay up late, for you. The things I do for you.

I devised my strategy, Sun Tzu would be proud: Approach from above and dominate. Since they were sitting, my natural elevation would support my appearance as a superior alpha man. Yeah, that’s what I told myself. Whatever works. What to say? Associate… roof top, sitting… avoid cliché.

“You guys are going to have dirty butts. We’re not goddamn apes. Be proud,” I said.

They all blinked.

“They blew it up! The idiots!”

They all blinked again, but she laughed. That means she saw the original Planet of the Apes. That means she’s a nerd, (or her dad was) and all my movie jokes will work.

The boys scowled at me, but she smiled and flexed her toes. When chicks are excited they flex their toes. It’s a physical expression of sexual tension. She thinks I’m hot. I am hot.

“Ok,” I said, “I’ll sit with you guys for a minute. Be interesting…aaaaand go!” I pointed at her.

She was staring at me, and only me, with doe eyes caught in the headlamp, so I sat down and played with her rings, her necklace, her hair. She was only eighteen and had just moved to the city. This is why the boys hovered and drooled—she was ripe, fresh and so clean. But they weren’t making any real moves. They were little boys and cowards. I ignored them. They’re gnats impeding my noble mission of bringing more love into this expiring world.

“Hey let’s go downstairs,” I said, and started walking without looking back.

“Ok.”

And down we went. I felt their eyes piercing my back like little poisoned daggers. I heard one of them whisper, “Douche bag.”

Some primal instinct was at work here, I was in the zone, dudes. I walked her around the party a few times, holding hands like an old couple. We ate salt and vinegar potato chips, and I fed her some whiskey out of my pocket flask. She laughed at all my dumb jokes, especially the one about barbequing a baby Orca. I told her my age but she didn’t seem to care. I didn’t either. I’d been going out every night that month and she was the first pretty girl to give me a shot in a week. She was a teenager, fresh out of high school. Fuck what anybody thinks. We’ll all be dead soon enough, so nothing really matters, I thought. Life is an absurdity, a video game. Social conventions are illusory in our pampered, feminized, rich, western environment.

I can fuck eighteen year olds if I want to. Nobody will judge you in Montreal.

To justify, you must create your own society in your head. This is how cults are formed. A student asked me once why I didn’t form a society and teach them all to think like me. We could all go to clubs together and I’d be the leader. I could probably do that. It would be like starting a new band, or writing a short story. But why would I want to lead a clan of weak, inexperienced men? There would be civil war. They’d overthrow me and drink my blood. Best not to think of such evil things, brain porn.

It’s not a bad idea.

“You should see my place. I don’t live far away,” I pointed west.

She looked at me for a second, smiled and said, “Ok.”

Why wasn’t it always this easy?

We walked together past the fountain in Park La Fontaine, up St. Laurent, laughing and stopping to kiss every few blocks. She was shy about it at first but allowed me. Her friend, a short kid in an army jacket, caught up to us on the corner. He was out of breath. “Olivia, where are you going with him?”

“Ummm, hi Nick…This is Sebastian.”

“Hey man,” I said.

“What am I supposed to do then?” He said, wiping sweat from his brow.

She squeezed my hand, then squinted and prepared herself.

“Umm, I don’t know, like, go make friends maybe?”

And that was that. The kid looked at her, then at me, then at her.

“Well, I’ll see ya later then,” he said, and walked away pouting the way I have a hundred times while some good looking guy got the girl…and now I was that guy.

I was the hot guy, the winner. Woot woot! My ego made a toast to himself. Then he did a line, and ate some Orca steak. I don’t have an inner goddess, I have an inner mythology.

“Is that guy in love with you?” I asked.

“He’s just my friend.”

“Ok. I think he’s in love.”

“Haha. Maybe. Yeah, I think so. He’s just my friend though.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Hey. Yeah, haha. He’s nice!”

“I know. They always are.”

“You’re funny.”

“Shhh, you had me at hello.”

The grand tour ended in my bedroom, naturally. She accepted my fondling until I went for her pussy. I said in a Humphrey Bogart voice, “A real classy dame, see.” I tried once more, with a similar result.

So I raped her, cut her into tiny pieces, glued them to a toy race-car, drove it into a Starbucks and blew it up.

Just kidding.

“You’re Mr. Cuddly,” she said, nuzzling her butt into my crotch.

“Yeah, I’m very cuddly. I like spooning, and back scratching, and arm scratching. Do you like it, or is it to feminine for you?”

“Oh no, naaah. I’m totally down with the cuddles. I love cuddles.”

“Sweet, because I’m awesome at it. You’re my cuddle slut.”

“Ahh! Hmmm, I suppose so.”

“My dirty cuddle whore…”

“…”

“…”

“Hey. That’s enough.”

“Ok.”

I must have hit on hundreds of girls since I arrived in Montreal. I would love to believe she saw the, umm, special, in me…but I just got lucky. No sex though. After she fell asleep, I snuck into the bathroom and politely rubbed one out.

The third date night, I had Olivia in my room and Eric was in the kitchen eavesdropping. She was telling me about a street rave happening that night.

“There’s gonna be lots of pillzzz people,” she said.

“I’ve never done that stuff, I’m scared.”

Eric popped his head through the door. “Do you want some E? Give me ten bucks.”

“How did you do that?” I asked. “Do you have like, super hearing?”

“Yeah, drug sense. Let’s get high. You have to try it at least once.”

I looked at Olivia, she smiled. I’d never tried mdma before, and I wanted to experience the love drug, especially with a hot girl.

“Sure man,” I said and handed him the money.

Eric returned ten minutes later with three white lines on a cd case. “Wow that was fast,” I said. Then he bent over the case and with a long snort, inhaled one of the lines. He held the case for Olivia and she took one, and I took the other. At first it just burned my throat and tasted like Tylenol. “How long will this take?” I asked.

“Oh, not long bro. Why don’t you play some guitar?”

I sat on the floor of my bedroom and played the guitar while Olivia and Eric sat on my bed and talked. After a few minutes I felt exceptionally giddy. The music was coming easy. I came up with a floating ditty. I missed playing music.

“Maybe I’ll start another band. I used to be pretty good.” I turned up the volume and played a sweet riff.

“You’re really good Sebastian!” Olivia said.

“Yeah bro, keep playing you’re great,” Eric agreed.

“Yes sirs,” I said. “I think I feel it now. I’m Kurt Cobain. Look at me now bitches. I think this stuff is working. Oh yeah, It’s good now.”

It was definitely working. I turned around and Eric was kissing Olivia, quite passionately. I should have been jealous but all I felt was warmth, and love. Was this what I’ve been looking for? It was never about the sex. I could care less about sex.

“I feel it!” I exclaimed. “It’s like someone broke the faucet to my endorphins. Oh man.”

“Sebasssttiiiaaannn come here!” Olivia begged, reaching for me with her free hand.

I climbed onto the bed and lay down with Olivia in-between us. I would kiss her, then he would kiss her, and it was fun. The window was open and the breeze was calming. I felt like a scene from Casablanca. I was hyper sensitive to a light sweat on my brow. It felt like jungle mist. I closed my eyes as Olivia massaged my neck and my skin pulsed, or vibrated, to the off rhythm of the street noise below. I could hear people laughing at the bus stop, departing on their various adventures. I sensed their emotions, fears and joys. I felt an urge to join them. Life is ok, adventure is good, I thought.

I felt something rough and stubbly on my face, so I opened my eyes to Eric. His tongue was in my mouth. Even though I should have been mortified—I didn’t care, not one bit. It seemed completely natural. I knew it was the drugs, so I pulled away from him. I’d have to deal with that memory later—I was too ripped to think about anything remotely logical. Olivia got on top and straddled us, then pulled off her shirt and bra exposing her amazing breasts. “Boys, boys!” She said.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” I asked Eric.

“She sure is!” He said, playing with them, kneading them.

“Fantastic.”

“Magnificent.”

“Can I slap them?”

“Sebastian!”

“Kidding.”

I looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. “Hey, let’s go to this party,” I said.

“Naw…,” he replied, nonchalantly. “Let’s stay here.”

Even though I was tripping, I didn’t want my first sexual experience in Montreal being a threesome with my strung out roommate. “No, I think we should go. Get up, up,” I said, sliding off the bed and putting on my sweater. Olivia got up as well. Eric looked bummed.

He hugged Olivia and said to her, “He’s just not from the Age of Aquarius. That’s all.”

Nor the land of Herpes, I thought.

“I want to go to the party. It sounds seriously good. The guy from Wolf Parade is dj-ing,” she said.

On the way to the party we ventured through a street festival on St. Viateur. I held tightly onto Olivia and she hung on to Eric. The night was warm and wild with love. Of course, we were high as fuck, but it was all around us—in the people—or so I hoped. In the streets, the bars and the late night cafés were people laughing, talking, singing, swearing, preparing for their nightly duties or adventures. As we slid through crowds I could smell fresh bread and perfume, coffee and shisha smoke, all the while waves of euphoria ran my spine like a marshmallow hand job.

“I’m alive,” I said.

“That’s it!” Eric exclaimed, swinging up his arms. “Don’t fight it. Let it work. This is Montreal, man.”

Olivia nuzzled closer to my neck and I hugged Eric, my best friend, who I didn’t really know, and had just made out with. Drugs weren’t so bad. They’re always terrifying the moment up to your peak, and then you find peace, joy and camaraderie, until you come down. The trick is not to reflect too much on life’s terror and darkness. Hunter S. Thompson has covered this better than I ever will.

“Am I gonna freak out? Where the hell are we anyway? Where’s this party?” I asked. And then I laughed. “No, no, it’s cool you bastards. Take me into the fray.”

“You’re the best.” She cuddled back into my neck.

Warmth, glow, fear, peace. Mdma is a hell of a drug.

“You’re the best too baby. I’m glad we met. I’m glad I took you from that party.”

“Me too. For seriously.”

“For what?” I asked. “Is that slang?”

“Yeah. For srrrrrsly,” She dragged the word out.

“Ok.”

I could hear the bass beyond rue St. Denis, behind the warehouse and train tracks. We pushed ahead through more crowds of festival goers and then through clean Montreal alleys; with all their fauna and graffiti, turning west, towards the bridge, and when we rounded the final bend some ten thousand hipsters appeared like gorillas in the mist, chest beating and jungle masturbation included. They were everywhere, homogenized, drinking tall cans of beer from paper bags, long boards in hand, and sporting painted denims in every color of the rainbow—like abused birds of paradise—they bobbed in unison to the thudding re-mix. I tightened my clutch on Olivia and Eric as they dragged me through the wonder and the terror of the outdoor rave.

“Sebastian are you having fun? You look a little green,” Olivia said.

“Yeah I’m fine. No worries. Just really fucking high. I’m Brett Easton Ellis high.”

My bowels shuddered under the stress of so much chemical induced anxiety, so I broke off the litter to leak behind a tree. I clutched onto that ancient oak like it was the one real entity amongst cardboard aliens. “Thanks friend,” I said, patting its trunk. “I’ll call you Treebeard.”

On my way back I found myself marooned in the crowd. A few yards up, a fist pumping punk with Bruce Springsteen hair was DJing on top of a van surrounded by hipsters. I cared for a moment until I located a couple of strange, beautiful girls, I thought I might have recognized, once, maybe in another time…so I walked over there, tripping my face off. I stood and stared at the girls, dumbfounded. I opened my mouth but no noise emerged—just my ever widening grin and the bass in the background.

“Hi?” One girl said.

“Hey,” I replied. “Cool party.”

“Yeah totally,” she pretended to agree.

Boom, Boom, Boom…

“Rad. Warm night,” I said, staring at her pretty face, hoping she could feel the waves of affection shooting from my chest like a fucked up Care Bear.

“Ummmmmm, yah.” She avoided eye contact.

Boom, Boom, Boom…

Fuck. She knows…everything.

“I’m super high right now,” I said, grinning through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Don’t worry about it,” she said.

But it was too late. She’d gazed into my abyss, into my soul, and it gazed back. Nipple shits. I stared at her some more; she was so pretty. I wondered if I could touch her without seeming creepy. I knew I was stoned but this was what love felt like; a pulsing, a crowd, an outdoor dj set—except I don’t like this song, and I’m really itchy, and thirsty, and sweaty.

“You’re pretty. Your hair’s nice?” I asked. It wasn’t a question, it just came out that way.

Come on Sebastian, you can do better. I don’t care if you’re high. I’m bored down here. I’ll do a good job. I promise.

She blinked, checked her phone, then turned away towards the guy from Wolf Parade.

You totally creeped her out bro.

Is that all you have to do? Stand on top of a van with a laptop and pump your fist? Then I was suddenly hyper aware of my legs being incredibly heavy, and my skin tingling like I was a cat and wanted to rub myself on a leg, or anything warm. I sent a text to Olivia saying:

“Lost. Scared. Need…girl.”

Where was she? Did she leave me to go off with Eric? He was a very charming guy, an artist. He had a nice beard, like a rock star. Maybe they were fucking doggy-style behind a dumpster somewhere. I imagined it, but I couldn’t make myself jealous, not on these pills. Everything was great no matter what. Then like sex-demons on a chloroform boat, Olivia and Eric appeared before me. They grabbed my wrist and we were off once more into the bubbling night, away from my shame and chemical fear/love.

“I need to go home please,” I told them.

“Ok Sebastian,” Olivia said maternally.

I loved that I felt like loving her. But I hated knowing it was because I was on drugs. What’s that feeling? Oh, guilt. There you are.

Hey dude. You’re gonna regret this.

Regret what?

Everything I let you.

Bastard.

When we returned to the apartment the ecstasy was wearing off, and thankfully I wasn’t feeling sad. I sat my desk and checked my messages. I’d been working hard and had amassed a great many girls that wouldn’t message me back. But now I had Olivia.

I looked down the hallway and Eric was talking to her in his room. I saw the door close behind them.

It’s fine. She’ll come back.

I scanned through a few more profiles, sneaking glances down the hall. The door was still shut. For the first time that night I felt a familiar sensation…jealousy. I hate jealousy. It means you’ve lost something that you’ve claimed possession of: Ownership is a trap.

Finally I’d had enough. I yelled, “Olivia, come!” A minute went by and his door opened. She walked meekly down the hall towards my room. He had his shirt off and appeared to be bargaining, pleading, gesturing with his hands. Olivia shook her head and left him there. She came into my room and got under the covers. I stayed on my laptop and started a poem.

A minute later Eric appeared in my door way. “Olivia,” he said. “Come with me.”

She didn’t look up.

“Olivia, let’s go,” he continued.

“Bro,” I said, “She’s tired. It’s done. Give it up.”

He stood there and scratched his balls.

“Man,” he said. “Like I said, you’re not from the Age of Aquarius.” Then he went back to his room and shut the door.

Within minutes, Olivia was fast asleep, or pretending to be. She looked so cute and I thought about waking her up so I could try her out, but decided to leave it. I shut of the light and tried to fall asleep too, but I was still high. So I stayed up and worked on my poem. I needed to put my mind on something, other than drugs and pussy and drama.

Bukowski Made Me Do It

I don’t have real angst

Not like war torn rape victims

HIV riddled convenience store beggars

Sex scandal politicians

Unemployed ex-famous actors

Tiny-dicked black men

But I have worries

Not like alcoholic test pilots

Balding hairdressers

Broke poker gurus

Angry life coaches

And your perpetually single, single mother

Life is just like that...

Did I really make out with Eric? What the fuck?

Chapter 10

Factotum (Phone Sex)

I arrived late to work at 9:15 am. My supervisor was sitting in the middle of the call center, in a booth overlooking the drones in their hot, clickity-clacking little cubicles. He was flapping his flabby white arms about and yelling into his headset about ratios and quotas. The fluorescent lights made the sweat on his mustache and balding head glisten. The operators, mostly kids in their early twenties, one-finger punched buttons on their keyboards and yak-yakked, pushing their collective products onto mostly unreceptive customers. Some were in high spirits and some were bored and fearful. It wasn’t a job for the weak of spirit… it was a job, one of the few for Anglos in Montreal.

“Sebastian, you’re late!” The boss yelled, jabbing his stubby thumbs at the giant LED clock on the wall. “I need you to have another good day buddy.”

“Gotcha,” I replied. I grabbed a headset, wiped it down with an anti-septic and plugged into my terminal. To my right was an eighteen year old white guy whom I often conversed with, mostly about chicks, and on my left, a new girl; young, brunette, nice legs.

“Hey Sebastian, who’s the new chick?” the kid whispered, punching uselessly at his keyboard with one finger to throw off the boss.

“I just got here. You tell me,” I said.

The boss was watching a monitor, so if anyone was off a call for more than two minutes he could yell at them. Then my screen lit up with a loud, “bleep,” that always hurt my ears, alerting me to attention. It was sort of like the slave-masters whip at the crack of dawn. The list of clients was endless, hopeless, like the sins of man. Eight point five hours to go. This is what we do to survive.

“Sebastian! Get on a call!” The boss yelled.

I noticed saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth. He needs water. Maybe it’s just madness. I hit dial and connected to my first client. It rang a few rings and then:

“Hello?” The woman’s voice said.

“Hello. This is operator one-one-nine from Visa Card services. May I please speak to Norma Wilson?”

“Well, this is Norma. How may I help you?”

“I’m just calling on behalf of Visa Card Services to let you know about a great new option we have. It’s called, ‘Physical Asset Protection.’ It’s designed to guard yourself or loved ones for up to one hundred percent coverage on broken bones or injuries from home or work related accidents.”

I forced a smile for the pitch. Supposedly, the customer can tell if you’re happy. I picked it up almost as an unconscious habit due to the fat man’s constant harping of, “Smile Sebastian! Smile!” It had actually been helping me with my pickup skills. The puas said the same thing. You can fake being happy to actually be happy. Go figure. And based on the law of state-transference, whatever you feel, they feel. In theory anyway. So people like you more when you’re happy, and they buy your shit, or suck your dick.

“Oh dear,” she said, her voice quivering like a broken harp. “Well, I don’t know, my husband passed away, he used to make these payments, and I’m still on his pension....”

“Oh Maam! But what if something were to happen to you, say in the bathtub, or on your way to go shopping? What if you tripped on a curb, or were bitten by a stray dog? What if you were suddenly unable to make payments?” I read the lines off a cheat sheet under, “client objections.” Sometimes I got creative and free-styled horrible, ridiculous tragedies like gang warfare and falling space debris. “But sir, what if a marauding gang of KKK burst into your house and broke your kneecaps?”

“This coverage comes at only two dollars per month,” I continued. “It’s automatically drawn from your credit card with no hassle to you. That’s less than a cup of coffee!”

The cup of coffee was the fat man’s favorite line. He forced all thirty-seven employees to memorize it daily, because about three of them were replaced for various reasons every day: some were fired for failing to make sales, some just quit. It didn’t matter, there were hundreds of call centers, but I chose this one for some reason. Most people have no idea why they work where they work. They just do it because someone told them they’re supposed to work.

“Oh…, erm….well that is cheap…” She agreed. “But I don’t know. What do I get exactly? I wish my husband was here to help me decide.”

“Maam… Norma, for just two dollars a day you get full bone coverage, up to five thousand dollars—for any bone in your body! It’s a small price to pay for such a feeling of safety.”

I’m good. I’m a smooth talking pickup artist. I smelled blood in the water; old, lonely widow juice. The boss man was watching me. He was probably listening in, Orwellian like.

“Well, I, I never thought of it that way,” she said meekly. “There is no problem with my age? I am getting quite…”

I cut her off. “Noo Maaam! It’s no problem. If you would just answer a few quick payment questions…” I filled her in, pushed past her final objections, then sent her to collections. Sometimes you just get lucky.

It’s all a numbers game they say, but I have talent. Old ladies are the easiest to sell. They want to believe there’s still good in the world and that someone is actually looking out for them. I didn’t tell grandma that the coverage will only cover one bone. She could break a dozen but we would only pay for one measly bone. I’m a bad, bad man. But I’m a bad man with a job. This is how your trip to hell begins, with one little justification.

“Good work Sebastian! I heard that one. Good job! Put Sebastian on the board!” the fat man yelled with a fist pump and a slam of Coca-Cola.

I watched the blubbery bastard and wondered how much money he made off every sale. “You see this everyone? Sebastian’s first sale was his first call! He’s a natural! Be like him. Ryan, get on the board this morning! Christine quit doing your makeup…”

I looked at the girls legs beside me and felt a looming erection. They were superb, like a silken waterslide of….

“Sebastian!” He yelled. “Keep going!”

Shit.

I re-started the queue, and the phone connected once more to another victim.

“Hello?” The man’s gruff voice answered.

“Hello Mr. Atkinson?”

“Yes?”

“This is operator one-one-nine from Visa Card Services….”

“I paid my bill.”

“Yes I understand. I am not a debt collector, sir. I’m with…”

“Then what do you want?”

“Did you know that for just two dollars a day you can be protected for up to one hundred percent protection on every bone in your body?”

A cat meowed in the background. Mr. Atkinson scolded it.

“Look, I lost my job three years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. We all have unfortunate events in our life. Now more than ever, wouldn’t you want your loved ones to be protected, as well?”

“Protected from what?”

“From injuries, sir.”

“I live alone. I’m divorced for fuck’s sake. My wife left me last year. My kids don’t speak with me. I’m an alcoholic.”

I took a breath and glanced over my shoulder at the fat man. He was eating a Subway sandwich and laughing about something on his cell phone. I looked at the girl’s legs, and down to her feet. She had a ring on her toe… and an ankle bracelet, holy shit, that’s hot. I adjusted my crotch and then my microphone.

“Sir. How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Get on with it, without a job?”

“What else is there to do? I drink and read books. Sometimes I golf,” he said.

“What about money?”

“What about money?”

“Hmmmm.”

I left that last comment hanging for a moment. “Sir. Between you and me, you don’t need this service. It’s bullshit. They only protect one bone. You could break twenty bones but they only pay for one. It’s a total scam.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

I heard the cat meow again, then screech.

“Operator… thanks for telling me this. I was considering buying it, just because I liked your voice.”

“Really?”

“No.”

We both laughed.

I looked back at the fat man, and he was staring at me again, sweating more than usual.

“Sir. You have yourself a good day,” I said, panicking. I hoped he wasn’t listening in. I needed this job to buy cool clothes, and eat, and pay rent.

“Yeah buddy, you too.”

I thought I heard the crack of a beer before he hung up. I felt slightly better. This was a good call. I’m filling my karma bank.

The fat man was still staring at me.

The girl was chewing gum and looking at her nails. Her hands were smooth and pretty.

“Hi, I’m Sebastian…”

“Hey,” she said, hardly looking at me.

“Make any sales yet?”

“Nah. I’m shit at this job,” she said.

“You’ll get better.”

“Nah, I’m only here until I make enough to go back to Thailand.”

“You’ve been to Thailand?”

“Yes, and Laos.”

“Cool.”

“Sebastian!” The fat man yelled. “Get on the board! We need another one from you. Lots of people need jobs in this city.”

“Yes sir!”

I pretended to make a call.

“So, are you going out tonight?” I asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know. What’s going on?”

“Well, me and my friends might barbeque a dolphin later.”

“What?”

“It’s the new thing in Montreal.”

“That’s gross.”

“Umm.”

She turned away from me.

“I’m joking,” I said.

“You’re weird.”

Good job.

I don’t think I’ve met a girl in my life that didn’t think I was weird or creepy until we had a decent conversation. Being smart is a curse. Obviously, I’m not barbequing a fucking dolphin. Maybe I needed a new line.

I wouldn’t make any commission until my third sale, and by noon I’d still only made one. I just wanted the day to end so I could go home, write, read, then go out and meet new girls.

Most people hate their jobs. Some pretend they don’t. They repress the truth to protect their ego. Some people turn their jobs into addictions, maybe they made good money, maybe it filled a void, maybe it made them happy. Mine sure didn’t. No job had ever fulfilled me. I was just surviving—making investment capital for the Reptilians.

By lunch break my eyes were bloodshot, and I was nursing a pronounced headache. The buzzer went off like a prison alarm and we filed out like sedated bovines for our thirty minutes of grazing. Some stood by the staff pool table and ate sandwiches out of bags, some smoked and gossiped on the front step, some went to Tim Horton’s, or Starbucks, or any of the common establishments to spend what little profit they had earned that morning on fatty foods. I went to the park and smoked a joint and stared up at the tall grey buildings and wondered if the people at the top were having a better time than we were. I didn’t feel sorry for myself; every decision I’d ever made put me here. Now I just needed a new decision to lead me down a different path, one out of slavery.

But first, I needed to get laid.

Chapter 11

Confessions (Sex)

Olivia was busy packing for her summer vacation, but I desperately wanted to bang her, so that night I invited myself to her place. It was a disaster zone. There was garbage strewn across the floors, the beds were covered in clothes and magazines and makeup and guitars and records.

“Nice place,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s pretty disgusting for sure. My roommates just left for home too,” she replied, pushing a pile of clothes off her couch, onto the floor.

We talked about small things, unimportant things, finished a bottle of cheap wine and started kissing. It happened very naturally. She took off her shirt, I undid her bra. Her boobs sprung out—pure joy; just perfect eighteen year old boobs. They were curved like little ski jumps, and smooth as silk. I nestled my face between them, kissed and lightly bit her nipples—she giggled and stroked my hair. I opened a rubber, rolled it on, sat her on my lap and slid into her. We were both a bit anxious. I hadn’t had sex since Esther, and sometimes women get very nervous before sex. I mean, I get it. We go inside of you. It’s the classic Sci-Fi infestation plot.

She bounced slowly on my lap until we picked up a good rhythm. We rocked together and increased our pace and intensity. I grabbed her hair and lightly bit her neck. We moaned in appreciation of each other. She was very wet and tight. It didn’t last very long—maybe two minutes. I came quickly. I just wanted to get it over with to prove it was happening. I performed poorly, but she didn’t seem to mind. Afterwards… relief; like all the work and bullshit and time I’d invested had finally paid off. I knew it would. It may seem shallow on the outside, but a man who can’t attract a beautiful woman is like a monkey with no arms, or a sedated circus tiger.

Ahhhh, finally.

I didn’t get her by being nice, or complimenting, or begging, or buying. I remained present, without thought of consequence, and calmly followed the game. The game plays on whether you’re there or not.

I got us a glass of water and pulled her close.

She looked at me and said, “So what do you do In Vancouver? Do your parents live there? You must miss them and stuff?”

“My mom lives close to there, and my stepmother too. My brothers are in the suburbs, outside the city,” I said, trying to avoid the inevitable awkward question that always followed this one.

“So, like, where is your dad?”

“Well, my dad died when I was twenty-one,” I said. I made sure to have a smile, and not seem sad, because I wasn’t. I only got sad when I wondered if I should be sad, and then became aware that whoever asked that question was also gauging my emotions, and wondered if they thought I should be sad. All this thought process leads to are mirrors, facing mirrors, facing mirrors.

“Oh my god! I’m sorry. That’s so terrible. What happened?”

I took a drink of my water, put it down, and took a deep breath. “Well, he got depressed, I think. He was an on again off again cocaine addict. You wouldn’t know it if you met him. He was really charming. But one day he parked himself in his work van, drank a sixty of vodka and shot himself full of liquid blow. No biggie.”

Fuck.That’s a good story bro.

Silence Hitler!

“Oh Sebastian!”

“No, it’s cool. I hardly knew the guy. Actually, he was alright, he just had issues. Can we change the subject?” I said, and forced a laugh. “It’s been a long time since. I’m fine with it,” I lied.

The truth is, I always felt like I could have helped him, that if I knew back then what I know now I could have taught him about ego, about positivity. I was pissed off that I had to learn how to mack girls from the Internet. But, the present is where it’s at.

Afterwards we smoked some weed and watched tv. We didn’t have much to talk about—we never did—but I didn’t mind. She was fun, and nice to look at.

We shared a beer and then I went home, opened my laptop and wrote down everything that happened. I added flair, drama, and poetry. Then I posted it on the seduction forums. Glorious applause from the pickup nerds. They loved my writing. Even the trolls were happy. They told me I should write a book. I thought about it.

Good luck with that.

I really didn’t want to be immortalized as a womanizer, and had no idea how to write a book. I didn’t want to be a hero to awkward men worldwide, forever approached for pickup advice. Besides, I was no pickup artist, and my writing was alright, but I’m no literary legend.

Limiting beliefs are limits you set for yourself. They’re Gestapo roadblocks in your brain. You can see the border to freedom, just beyond the smoky ridge, but you forgot your papers. Back to zee camp with you!

Chapter 12

Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll

(Hand jobs for medical care)

“I have to go home for a month,” Olivia told me.

And I was again without a woman—but you can get used to being without a woman, and even come to enjoy it. Is that the beginning of madness, or sanity?

You will never be able to attract every woman. Even if you’re the most beautiful and charming man in the world, like Charleton Heston, or Mussolini—you’ll still fail from time to time. Get used to it, laugh about it, enjoy failure. The same principle is universal and applies to everything of worth. I don’t believe in being gifted. I believe in hours invested and rigid standards.

Eric wanted to go out, and I wanted someone to pick up girls with me, so we pre-drank a few tallies before hitting the road. On the way to Tokyo, he stopped and slipped underneath someone’s front porch.

“Sebastian, come here and hold this,” he said, handing me his wallet. I took it and he opened a little plastic baggie the size of my thumb and dumped some crushed, white powder onto the wallet.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just some stuff I had around from old prescriptions.”

“Oh… prescriptions for what?”

He pulled out a rolled five dollar bill, and in one long snort sniffed half the drug into his left nostril. He leaned his head back and went, “Woooo! Oh yeah. Ok man, have some. It’s good.”

“I dunno,” I said. “I’m terrified of hard drugs. I don’t want to foam at the mouth.”

“C’mon! It’s fine. It’s just some old anti-depressants. I’m fine. I wouldn’t give you anything that would hurt you.”

“Well… ok.”

I bent down over the mystery powder to take a snort. I heard the door above us slam, so I glanced up at a white-haired Grandma with a small boy in-hand coming down the stairs directly above us. I panicked and pushed the wallet away, just as a gust of wind arrived, sending the powder spraying into a fine mist that landed over Eric’s jacket. “Fuck dude, fuck!” He yelled, jumping like a leprechaun, trying to rescue the prescription madness as I slipped out from under the porch. The lady was startled and stared at us accusingly. I felt like a villain as Eric bowed to her and we walked away. “Awwww, it’s ok Sebastian. I have more at home,” he said, patting me on the back. “You’ll learn.”

It was a typically busy Friday night at Tokyo, with all the tight pants guys with their poofy hair and mostly white girls in American Apparel casual leggings. I let Eric wander around while I went to the deppanneur across the street and bought two more tall cans of French beer. I slammed them in the alley. Beer is my power pellet, my spinach, my green lantern. I was getting fat. I wasn’t getting any exercise other than the bike ride to and from the call center of doom. Other than that all I did was drink coffee, read books, get drunk, and hit on girls.

Many dating coaches are drug users and heavy drinkers. There are a few straight-edgers, but they’re the highly vocal minority. We spend most of our time in bars, and have to be charming, happy, and fearless all night long. It can be downright terrifying and depressing when you’re being blown out, over and over, while students expect you to be Superman. Booze helps, but comes at a heavy cost. You can reach a state when you’re sober, but at this point, I preferred alcohol. To each their own.

I went back inside and spotted two precious things at the top of the stairs. I walked up and said, “Greetings!”

They jumped back, startled.

“Ummm, hi?” one girl said.

“Do we know you?” the other chimed in.

“Me? Yeah. We were in elementary school together, remember? You used to push me on the swing and we would run through the daisies at recess.”

“Yeah, anyway,“ she replied, and with a pretty spin gave me the back-turn of denial.

Her friend shut me out too.

I walked away and caught myself slouching in the mirror.

You’re kinda fat. That’s it. And you need a haircut.

I saw a girl sitting, texting. “What’s your book about?” I asked. She didn’t bite. “Hi. Are you writing a novel?” I repeated, a little bit louder with a hint of irritation.

She sighed heavily, “My boyfriend is here.”

“Oh, ok. That’s nice. Is he… a good and decent man?”

She smirked and stopped texting, “Go away bro. Not interested.”

I looked at the dance floor. There were about a dozen other girls, all texting on their phones. I took a swig of my beer and tried another angle.

“Does he beat you?”

She looked back up at me. “Ha ha? What? No. Look, you’re cute. I’m sure there’s a girl here for you, but I’m not her. I have a boyfriend.”

“You all do.”

I stared at her for about thirty seconds, without blinking, just to weird her out. It worked because she frowned and went back to texting.

Perhaps I need dental work, or new shoes. A made a few more tries with similar results. I figured maybe it’s just this cursed place, a purely logistical issue. I’ve heard that in other countries people are very warm and exceptionally social. Maybe I should move to Thailand, or Greece. I’ll buy a boat and fish off Cuba, like Hemingway.

I spotted Eric across the room and worked my way through the crowd to meet him. He was in a gaggle of hipsters, talking to a tall, neon hat wearing, skinny jeans bearded boy. Neither of them appeared happy.

“Look dude,” Eric said, pushing his finger into Neon’s chest, “I don’t get along well with homophobes.”

Neon stood with mouth agape, dropped his chin, looked up again, reached out with a right jab and popped Eric in the jaw, putting him to floor with a thump. The crowd gasped. Eric looked up and hollered, “What the fuck dude!? Why did you hit me?”

“You called me a homophobe.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“No! Are you?”

“Hell no.”

“Prove it.”

“Ok!”

And then Eric jumped up, grabbed Neon’s face, pulled it in and they were making out. The crowd gasped again, and instantly dispersed. Just like that. Eric had a game plan. He’s purely Machiavellian in his quest; sniffing pills, engaging in random combat, and pulling emotional strings like a debauched puppet-master-guru. To become like him, I would have to dedicate my life to drug fueled dandyism. I’m far too conservative; I need to consult the forum archives for posts on extremist party culture.

I left them to it and did a few more laps of Tokyo—nothing. They wanted nothing of me. Not my smile, my thoughts, my wiener—nothing. The lights came on and I found Eric being escorted out of the bar by security. “Fuck you, fuck you, fucking Neo Conservs!”

He boasted of his accomplishments from the street, blocking traffic. I pulled him away.

“I’m an artist. I’ll destroy you! I’m one of your best customers you homophobic assholes!”

I dragged him away a few blocks: “Man, do you want to get your ass kicked again?” I said. “Those bouncers won’t kiss you.”

Garbage day in Montreal has people piling their junk onto the front street. Eric noticed a mound and dashed over to it, pulled out his lighter, and like a pro arsonist ignited a box of newspapers. Within seconds there was a column of sparks and smoke four feet high. I didn’t have time to stop him. He’s too fast. This was his art, his destructive joy.

“Holy shit dude. Are you mental?” I yelled.

He fanned the flames, and they grew quickly until we were standing at a street-side bonfire with tongues licking well over six feet high.

“Dude. We need to run now,” I snapped.

Eric was jumping around the pile, Indian whooping and kicking at the flames. I pulled his arm but he resisted. He had a crazed, drunken, pill-popped sex frenzy in his eyes. All of his frustration had transmuted to a lust, you might say, an appetite for destruction. This is what happens to a wild beast when it can’t find food, or feels threatened, or can’t attract a mate. I understood. I finally pulled him away from the inferno, when a car slid up beside us. A black man in his fifties yelled out the window, “Hey man. What in God’s name is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

The flames were still over six feet high.

“Nigger! Fuck you…nigger! Hah!” Eric screamed at him.

Oh my lord.

“Nigger?” The black man said, leaning out of his window. “Hah hah! Kid are you for real? Nigger? What? Did you really say Nigger? Come here you little shit!”

The black man gunned his car towards the curb, intending to run Eric down, but in his drug fueled fervor he was too agile and leapt nimbly out of the way, giggling like a school girl. Then Eric pitched forward and ran, still war whooping, into a nearby alleyway. I followed him down there. It was like I was watching a great piece of history, a fantastic movie come to life. When I finally caught up he was leaning to catch his breath.

“Ha ha, dude, that was awesome,” he said, gleefully.

I glanced back around the corner, but the black man had given up his pursuit. The fire was still raging and a crowd had formed. “Yeah. Umm, we should go before we end up in jail,” I insisted.

I could hear fire truck sirens in the distance. I didn’t want to go to prison; I’m too cute, I have dimples. I’ll be a bitch for sure. It was lose, lose. At the very least, I’d have a criminal record and not be able to travel. I’d be stuck in Canada and forced to date difficult, masculinized western women for eternity. Or maybe this is all part of my development. I needed this experience. Maybe I’m supposed to learn some great and timeless lesson from this debaucherous little man.

Just when I thought he had calmed, Eric jogged over to an old building and started leaping upwards, grasping for a steel fire escape ladder hanging just out of his reach. I was about to warn him, save this wonderful life, until he managed to catch the bottom rung. As he was hanging with his feet dangling about three feet off the ground there was a, ‘click, click,’ and the ladder came loose with a, ‘swoosh,’ falling straight onto his skull, sending him crumpling into the pavement into a motionless heap.

That’s it I thought. He’s finally dead.

“Urrrgghhh, fuuuuuckk,” he moaned.

“Jesus Christ!” I said, and picked him up by the arm. His scalp was gored and blood ran down his face onto his jacket. It dripped onto my legs, staining my new jeans and shoes.

“Hahaha! That was fucking rad!” He said with a dazed fist pump. He looked like he was about to lose consciousness.

“You’re in shock man. I think you should go to the hospital. You’re bleeding.”

“Really? You think so? Shit. But I don’t have healthcare.”

“What? We’re in Canada.”

“Yeah we are. Canada sucks. Fucking Neo-Conservs masquerading as liberals run this shit.”

Eric sat on the curb and smoked a cigarette while I called him a taxi. He got in and I gave the driver ten bucks. “To the hospital,” I said. I walked back to my apartment and told Lucy and Mark about our night. They were horrified. There was talk of intervention. So I figured Eric was slightly crazy, but for some reason I admired him.

I would never be that crazy. Most of us are worried about paying bills, or looking nice, or being safe. We’ll never know what it truly means to rage against the machine.

When Eric finally got home he had four stitches sewn onto his head.

“Dude,” he said, proudly. “The doctor said he wouldn’t give me stitches because I didn’t have my care card. I argued with him, and then he reached down and squeezed my balls. In between stitches he would grab my dick.”

“And you let him?” Lucy asked.

“Yeah, whatever, man,” he said, suddenly glum.

I needed a new wingman.

Chapter 13

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.

Chapter 14

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.

Chapter 15

Lara (Maybe you care too much?)

Another bar I liked was The Green Room; a small club popular with the neon kids. This night I bumped into two guys from the lair. One was tall and wearing a fedora and the other was shorter, in a blazer, a bit chubby with a shaved head. They were leaning up against the bar.

“Hey bro, how’s your night? You sarging?” the tall one asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m about to. How about you guys, done any approaches?”

“Nah,” the tall one said. “We don’t approach. We let them come to us. I’ve been getting approached a lot.”

“Really? Awesome! That never happens to me,” I said, truthfully. “I never have it easy. That’s why I’m learning pickup.”

I studied these guys leaning on the bar, and then checked out the room. There were quite a few pretty girls, but none seemed remotely interested in approaching us. I didn’t blame them. It’s not like we were exquisitely handsome compared to all the fit French dudes in the club. Even though we were puas, nobody knew or cared.

“So what do you do? Just stand here until a girl talks to you?” I asked.

“Yeah man. We don’t chase.” The shorter guy said. “So what’s your style? My name’s Jeff by the way.”

“I’m Sebastian. My style? Well, I don’t know. I just get in there and let the magic happen. Hope I don’t get blown out or whatever.”

“Right on,” Jeff said. “We should go out sometime.”

“For sure,” I agreed. “I’ll be your wingman.”

I sipped my beer and said goodbye. “Well guys, I’m gonna go talk to that girl over there. Wish me luck.”

They leaned back and watched as I approached my first girl. She was wearing what looked like a kimono so I said, “Did you just return from Japan? Konnichiwa!”

She stopped dancing, smiled quizzically and said, “What?”

“I like your kimono!”

“Oh… thank you.” She didn’t seem impressed by me, not at all. A feeling I was becoming used to. A sort of insignificance, like I was a flea to be swatted away. If some of these bitches would just give me a chance, we could have an adventure. Why does everything have to be a threat? I know that life is scary for girls, but I’m scared too. Scared of missing out on the human experience.

“Did you just get back from Japan?”

“Me? No.” She said.

She wasn’t holding eye contact and kept deferring to her friend. They looked back and forth, back and forth at each other, so I called them out, “Hey. You guys keep girl coding each other. You want me to go away?”

Kimono said, “No, it’s just that we haven’t seen each other in a long time and we want to dance. Sorry.”

“I can dance! Check it out.” I did the robot, which should have amused them, but she just smiled awkwardly and looked away. Slowly, I will peck at their shells until they love me.

I noticed a girl that had been staring at me since I arrived. I worked with her at the Call Center of Doom. She had a very pretty face with big almond eyes, dark, straight shoulder length hair and giant boobs. She’s a little bit thick but not fat, very womanly. I don’t mind a bigger girl if she isn’t straight up obese. I don’t want to slap her and ride the waves in, or roll her in flour to find the wet spot. I don’t want that or any other fat girl clichés. I suppose it’s the same as a pretty girl not wanting a boyfriend with a shitty job and no status.

The kimono girls were ignoring me. This was typical when I cold approached chicks on the dance floor since I sucked at dancing. I’m so white. I gave them the low five and left them alone. It was less corny than a high five and it doesn’t look like I just got brutally rejected. It just looks like, “peace out girls. See you around…friends!”

The bar was too small to look like a loser; I’d be forced to leave the venue out of shame. If girls see you get rejected, they all reject you. If they see you doing well, they all want to meet you. I was becoming very good at making rejection look cool. It all goes back to cavemen and all that. The head caveman gets all the women, so all the women want to be with the boss.

The big boobie girl was still stealing glances at me. Olivia was out of town anyway.

I walked straight towards her and said, “Co-worker, hug me!” And just like that she nuzzled straight into my neck. Does game even matter? It’s like once again, all a girl needs is to know that someone else knows me, or that I know someone they know. It’s so stupid.

We made irrelevant small talk about how much working sucks, and our hips met each other. My cock was awake. After all, my cock is the ultimate judge of a woman’s attractiveness. Me and him, we have a relationship like Master and Blaster from Mad Max. He’s the Master, I’m Blaster. He chooses—I act. It’s not a healthy relationship, but we get the job done.

“I always thought you were hot,” she said, grinding her butt into my crotch.

“Yeah? I thought you were, alright.”

She punched me in the arm. “Asshole! Be nice.”

“Nice guys die alone.”

“Maybe you want to be alone Sebastian?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Her name was Lara. I leaned in to kiss her, and had to squeeze through her breasts to do so. We sucked tongues on the dance floor surrounded by ecstasy riddled hipsters, and the lair guys were still watching me, which I enjoyed for some reason; like an egotistical rock star with his fans. Their passive strategy failed while my active one worked.

Guys that don’t get laid much always say I care too much about getting laid. But every time I pick up a girl that I went out of my way to approach, it proves my philosophy. It’s too bad regular guys have to approach a hundred girls just to find a cute one willing to give them a shot. I wonder how many men die having never been with a beautiful girl, forever resentful, with raw cocks from too much Internet porn. That’s why I’ve never wanted to be a regular guy. I’m no fucking Muggle… I’m a dick wizard, and when I have sick game, and I’m famous, I’ll have my pick of the greatest women on the planet.

I hoped I’d bang her so I could write about it on the seduction forums, and get some street cred. Am I an asshole for thinking this? I dismissed this thought and replaced it with, “In the name of science”, and, “for personal growth.”

Self-delusion is a wonderful tool. As smooth as I may have appeared to the lair guys, I was still a scared ex-nerd pretending to be a player. It’s a lot of work to get a hot girl—far too much work. I’d already decided she was too fat, and though I’d sleep with her, I’d do better in the future. It’s human nature to reach beyond your station. Even though I was in no position to be picky, I was already looking for something better.

Standards and delusions of grandeur.

“Where do you live?” I asked her.

“Just over on St. Laurent. Why?”

“Oh, we should go. Chill out.”

“Hmmmm, well, ok.”

I refrained from yelling “Hell yes! Hallelujah!” And instead said, “Hmmmm, Yeah it’s not too late. Sure. For a bit, I suppose.”

As we exited the bar I stopped and said farewell to Jeff and the tall guy. “It was nice seeing you dudes. Talk to you later.”

“Yeah man, have fun,” Jeff said. “I was getting horny just watching you. Bang her good.”

“I will.”

I noticed that little voice from deep inside my head telling me how cool I was, and how lame they were, and I agreed with him. I didn’t know that Jeff would eventually become a good friend. But then, my ego was chirping like a tiny Emperor Palpatine grinding his bony fingers and saying, Yes! Yes! You are better than them my young PUA. Muuuahahahaha!!!

We caught a cab back to her apartment. She was twenty-seven, loved yoga, drawing, and traveling. She hated her job like most people do, and liked her roommate because she was awesome, and wasn’t going to have sex with me tonight… or so she said. I agreed completely because sex is, “Ewww, gross.”

I’ve read that when a woman says you aren’t having sex it means she’s thinking about having sex and that means you’re definitely having sex. She wants to bang, but it’s not supposed to be her fault. She can’t be a slut, even though she is, or wants to be. It’s some weird anti-slut-shame mechanism.

At her apartment she hushed me past her roommates and into her bedroom. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered and closed the door. Her place was nice; a typical giant Montreal bedroom with squeaky wood floors and red brick walls. Her room was covered in pictures from her world travels. She’d been banged in all corners of the globe I figured. She came back carrying two big glasses of water.

“Thanks,” I said. “Nice place.”

“Yeah. It’s ok. Do you want a sandwich?”

I stared at her for a few quiet seconds and I moved closer. I didn’t want a sandwich, I wanted to bang. We kissed again. I climbed onto the bed and crawled on top of her. She lifted her shirt up as I pulled my belt off. In a few seconds we were both in our underwear.

“Umm, we can’t have sex though. Can we just take it easy?” She asked impishly.

I stopped, pulled back and smiled at her. “Yeah, totally. I don’t care. Let’s talk about the state of political affairs in eastern Europe.”

She giggled.

“Sex is gross, “I said.

She giggled again and we made out some more. I rolled over and pulled her on top of me to do the reach around and slowly pushed my fingers inside of her. It was a sneaky move. She whimpered and swayed her hips gently. I snapped her bra off with one hand and her tits, in all their fantastic glory, fell into my face. I stuffed one nipple into my mouth and continued massaging her clitoris in tiny, light circles, listening to her encouragements for guidance. She was very wet. I pushed her off and got on top of her so I could access her G-spot with my fingers.

Up to this point, I’d only read about it. Hers was where they said it would be, just inside, up and to the right. I massaged it with a, “come hither,” motion in between bouts of hammering up as hard as possible for thirty second intervals. It worked. She moaned in delight and began to climax. I’m a sex god, I’m Siddhartha, I’m the guy from the Paris Hilton sex tape.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” She whimpered. I could tell she was about to come but my hand was burning with fatigue so I slowed down. I needed more practice.

“Oh don’t stop! Ok, ok, do you have a condom?”

Yes, you do. But I don’t like them.

Silence you!

It’s hard to feel things!

You want babies?

Maybe!

Shutup.

Nein! Nein! Nein!

I leapt off the bed, tossed off my boxers and grabbed a rubber out of my pants. I slapped it on and got back to it. The whole process took about thirteen seconds. I finally pushed it in and it went easy so I started hammering away at her with swift, deep strokes, then shallow, slow circles, and then deep and fast again. I watched her giant breasts bounce and listened to her melodic howling as I slammed away, and within about thirty seconds I sensed my explosion. I had no control, I was an amateur.

“Oh, oh, oh shit, I’m coming. I’m sorry,” I said.

“Ok!” She said, squeezing my butt encouragingly.

“Oh fuck. Fuck.”

And it was done. DNA delivered. Fuck yeah, Captain Awesome.

I was embarrassed, but happy. My first bar conquest. She lit a cigarette, and I checked my text messages. There was one from Olivia saying, “Hey, I’m back! What r u doing tmrw?” I turned around and saw Lara reading over my shoulder. She didn’t say anything.

“That was really fun,” I said.

“Yeah it was.”

“I have to work tomorrow. I’m gonna crash here if that’s cool.”

“No problem.” She puffed up my pillow for me. “I have an extra toothbrush.”

She snuggled up to me. I wasn’t sure if I should cuddle her or not. But I did anyway. I wondered if she felt guilty about banging me so quickly, but decided not to ask. Instead, I tried to fall asleep, which didn’t come easily for some reason, even though I felt rather content. Then I felt a little bad, guilty, and wasn’t sure why. It was a feeling I would become familiar with. I dismissed the thought and tried to sleep in this stranger’s bed.

Chapter 16

Epiphanies (Heroes)

I sat in the café, sucking my Americano and staring at my cell phone. Montana the cat girl wasn’t replying to my text messages, someone else was. They said:

“You have the wrong number, please stop texting us.”

Fuck. All that work for one measly blowjob memory, and I was over-texting like a newb, getting all riled up over no-reply’s. This didn’t come with the player package. They aren’t supposed to flake on you; they’re supposed to fall in love with you. I didn’t want to just fuck a girl and never see her again. I wanted to have the choice. I wanted to have super powers. Charm Boy! Come touch his wiener and be astounded!

After five months in Montreal, going out almost every night, I was more confident with women than at any point in my life. However, strange things were happening. The previous night I had a nervous breakdown, or like, a waking dream. I saw numbers falling all around me like in The Matrix. I fell onto my bed and laughed hysterically while this hallucination lasted about thirty seconds. Ok then… I thought. Maybe I should chill on all this self-actualization stuff. My obsession with pickup was making me mental.

I moved further off of pua material and was reading philosophy and biographies. I was particularly taken by Freidrich Nietzsche and his vision of the Uberman, or Superman. Apparently so were the Nazis, but that’s another story. I wrote about some of my favorite quotes in my journal.

“Admiration for a quality or an art can be so strong that it deters us from striving to possess it.” Don’t worship your heroes. Become the hero.

“Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent.” All the rejection I face, the negative emotions, must not be focused on. This will leave me immune.

“And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” Pretty much self-explanatory for anyone who spends an inordinate amount of time feeling sad.

“Art is the proper task of life.” I’m happiest while I make my art, whether that be writing a poem, a song, or seducing a woman. Creation fulfills the soul.

“He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.” To learn any great skill will require a great deal of dedication. Years perhaps.

“I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage.” There is no growth in comfort. Embrace the bad times as a grand learning experiences.

“If a woman possesses manly virtues one should run away from her; and if she does not possess them she runs away from herself.” Word to that, brother.

What a guy. He could have been a great ladies man if he read a few seduction books. Instead he grew old and lonely, went insane and died. Then his sister gave all his writing to the Nazis and they used it to create an army of racists. Oopsies! I only hoped I could be as prolific a writer as he was. Hopefully I won’t create an army of pickup Nazis. My sisters are too sweet to be evil.

I’d been mentoring my roommate, Mark, on the ways of seduction—because he was a pathetic beta male. He had a date the prior week with a girl he met at Korova bar. I came home one evening and he was running around the kitchen preparing a dinner in between trips to the rooftop patio.

“Sebastian! Go look on the roof. I set up for my date.”

I got up there and there was a blanket on the ground surrounded by a dozen candles, with flowers, a few of Eric’s paintings and a guitar. He had a three course meal set up. To get that stuff up there he had to climb two vertical wall ladders and hop over three low risers, so it obviously took lots of effort. I went back inside, deeply troubled. My ebooks didn’t agree with his strategy, not at all.

“Dude,” I said, “that’s insane.”

“Yeah man, isn’t it great? She’s gonna love it.”

“When did you meet her?”

“Oh, last night.”

“Last night?” I asked, frowning.

“Yeah man. Awesome huh? She’s so fucking hot bro. She’s Latino. Her ass is like a beach ball. I like her man, she reminds me of my ex.”

One night when Mark was strung out on blow (for about a week after every payday,) he told me that his last relationship was with a beautiful Jewish girl. They were together for two years and were madly in love…well, he was in love. But they never fucked. That’s right…never had sex in a two year monogamous relationship. Did he want sex? Maybe? I don’t understand how a twenty five year old man can be with a modern girl for two years and not get laid. But she didn’t want to bang Mark…so he waited. I figured he was clueless as I used to be, or just a pussy. Now I wonder if he wasn’t a closet homosexual.

Young men—understand this: until you bang her, there is no relationship. You have a friendship.

“Umm. Don’t you think that’s a bit much effort for someone you just met?” I said, watching him frantically uncork his twenty dollar wine bottle.

“Huh? No way. What girl wouldn’t love this? It shows what a great guy I am.”

“Ummm. It shows you really, really want her to like you.”

“Yeah man. I sure do.”

Face Palm.

I left him to his date with despair because I was going to meet Jeff at the Green room to relentlessly hit on every hot girl in a ten block radius. I wasn’t going for phone numbers anymore; they almost always just flake anyway. It’s too hard on your soul. So I decided to escalate like the Terminator for quick make outs and hopefully, same night bangs. I’d go full-douche bag, because that’s what seemed to work. Until now, almost every girl I’d slept with was a status lay, because I was in a band, or a journalist. Status is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Not anymore. I was a regular guy.

I hunted with Jeff for a bit. The guy was fearless, not what I expected. Now he relentlessly opened every woman on the block. He didn’t seem to care if I got a chance to try my luck, but I didn’t mind. I was getting really emotionally burned out with all this pickup stuff anyway. I wanted to go camping, or see some bands, or go to a potluck, but my life was all about approaching girls that didn’t want anything to do with me. I had a few chicks to call, but I wasn’t interested in seeing those ones, not much. I wasn’t even that excited to see Olivia. The hunt was more fulfilling than sitting around and hanging out, doing nothing. I’d rather be making art.

Our night wasn’t fruitful. I learned a few things about my bar game, like I’m too quiet and I still slouched. I needed to work on my vocal projection and become much louder. And I shouldn’t be afraid of groups. Most groups are just co-workers or friends of friends. Most guys aren’t looking for trouble and if you show them a little bit of respect, they’ll let you hit on their women.

I said an early goodnight to Jeff and walked home. I saw Montana the cat-blowjob girl roll by on a bus, but she didn’t, or pretended not to see me.

Fuck her dude. You can do better.

Maybe I’ll find her on Facebook later. I got another text from Olivia. Good. I liked her but not enough to be exclusive. I didn’t want to go monogamous with the first girl that would have me. I wanted to become a great and powerful pooah. She was cool but always seemed to be on morphine, or something, just far away. I called her a teeny bopper, and she agreed that she was indeed still a teeny bopper. I wanted her to read more books so we could talk about literature. Still, I was attracted to her youth and looks. Mostly I liked her because she liked me. She was one girl that didn’t flake on me. That was worth something.

When I got home, Mark was drinking red wine alone in the living room with Dinosaur Junior blaring off his IPod; half a mickey of vodka was on the table beside him, dark hair hanging over his forlorn face as he pecked away on Facebook.

“Hi Mark. How did your date go?” I said, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

“It was fine I guess.”

I cracked it open and took a long swig.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

You should teach him! To be like you!

“I don’t get chicks man,” he said. “We ate dinner and then she just bounced. I was gonna take her out, but she said she had plans… or some bullshit.”

I sat down and patted his shoulder. “Ummm, did you tell her how much you liked her?” I hoped he would say no.

“Yeah I did, numerous times. I wrote her a fucking song too, and played it for her. Bro she loved it.”

Another face-palm. Mark didn’t understand that most women don’t want to be wined and dined and serenaded by a dude they just met at a hipster bar. Well, some do, but not because they want to bang. Maybe they’re just bored and hungry. She must have realized that he was a giant pussycat who wasn’t ever going to step up, and left for greener pastures. He’s just too nice, the poor bastard. He picked up his guitar and started strumming it.

“Bro. It’s a good riff. Check it out. I’m gonna teach it to the guys and gig it.”

“It’s good.”

He had his music, his guitar, and his band. We’d been jamming a bit, but I didn’t like his style. It was very nineties grunge. Been there done that. But I noted how he dropped the rejection by focusing on his band. If you’re thinking negatively about something, it’s best to move your thoughts towards the positive. I like to think of Dolphins, or Dinosaurs, or my pretty ex-girlfriends.

A week passed and of course she never returned any of his dozen texts or phone calls. So one fine day I explained to him how women operate. I gave him a copy of The Game, David Deanglo’s Double Your Dating, and showed him a Mystery Method video on You Tube. I also told him that I go out to practice pickup almost every night, and if he’d like to join me he was more than welcome. I’d initiated my first pupil, or so I thought.

He was very interested for about ten minutes, and then he changed his mind. “That’s fucking creepy bro,” he said, in mocking disgust. “I always wondered where you were going every night. And you’re always talking about girls. Like, constantly.”

“Really. I am?”

“No, well, yeah. I’m kidding. It’s all good. But you should just relax a little, let it happen. I don’t like this Mystery guy. What a fucking douche-bag. I mean, look at him; he wears makeup and a top hat. What the fuck? Pickup artist? He looks like a circus freak.”

This dude is clueless. Teach him your ways, master Jedi.

“He’s a genius,” I said. “I know he looks weird, but check him out. I’ve been watching his videos all summer. I’ve been meeting new girls every night… this stuff really works. He’s not the only teacher. There’s a whole bunch of them; just Google, ‘How to pickup girls.’”

“Yeah...” He shook his head, looking at the bedroom floor he’d cleaned for his date. “But I’d just rather be myself. I don’t want to manipulate girls.”

Sighing, I pulled up a chair in front of him. “It’s not manipulation, it’s more like art. It’s just being awesome. It’s learning how to express your best-self, not give a shit what people think about you, and treat women like women, not cherished jewels.”

“Really? I don’t think so,” he said. “This is art.” He picked up his acoustic guitar and started plucking.

I hesitated before speaking again, picking up the bong and taking a long hit.

“Art is expression of soul, “I said as I coughed. “It’s creating something great out of something simple. You’re blowing it with these women. You don’t even see it. What I’m saying is you’re putting the girls on a pedestal. You need to be more teasing, more abundant. You need to be more of an uncaring asshole. Like, making that girl dinner and putting it on the roof? It’s so, needy. Don’t aim to please her just because she’s a woman. Make her earn that shit, like you would any potential friend. All you had to do was go for a walk, have a drink in one of the awesome local bars. You don’t even have to pay. Tease her a bit, make her work for your affections.”

He looked up, one eye poking out from behind his grunge hair. “I don’t want to be like that. I like the way I am.”

“Then you’ll keep getting what you’ve always gotten.”

He strummed his guitar and took a drag from his cigarette.

“I just don’t want to be like that,” he repeated.

Fuck this guy bro. Go be productive.

“Be like that? Be like what… confident? Charming? Do you like not getting laid? You enjoy being rejected?”

“It’s not like that,” he said. “I just haven’t met the right one. It’s not all about sex, Sebastian. You need to relax.”

“Mark, you haven’t been inside a vagina in four years. Things need to change.”

He stood up and slammed down his guitar, making the strings buzz. “Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up with this pickup bullshit Sebastian!”

We sat in silence until he reached down and picked up the bong, took a toke, and passed it to me. “Yeah, I suppose I need some help. I still think Mystery is a creep. Hey, wanna jam? Go get your guitar.”

I didn’t want to jam. I used to be like Mark. I can’t say I’m better than him, even though I was more confident with women. Hell, if it wasn’t for pickup I wouldn’t even be in Montreal. I’d still be living with the stoners in Vancouver, doing nothing, rotting in depression the way Mark was now. I definitely wouldn’t have slept with all of these pretty girls. I’d probably have shot myself by now.

I went back to my room and checked the forums. I was gaining small fame amongst newbies, and respect amongst veterans. I liked to write weird, poetic stories about my adventures and they seemed to inspire. Sometimes I would get like fifty replies to my articles. Guys were telling me I was a great writer, a genius, and asking if I would write a book. I felt like I was living a choose-your-own-adventure novel, and I chose to hit on chicks. The field reports were my way of rooster cawing. I just wish I could find attention like this from girls instead of pickup dudes.

One night, I came out of my room and Lucy was making some food in the kitchen. I crept up behind her and said, “Boo!”

She screamed and yelled, “Fuck off Sebastian, you fucking creep!” And then ran, pitter, patter, crying, to her room. I stood there in shock. I’d never had issues with Lucy before. We had some interesting chats but I never hit on her. I followed her down the hall and knocked on her door.

“Are you ok? I, umm, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Go away,” she belted from behind the door.

I stood back for a second before deciding to continue.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Look, I just don’t like you… ok?”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer right away. I heard some rustling of papers, and then a silence.

“Look, I just think you’re a douche-bag. Don’t take it personally.”

“Wait,” I said, resting my head on her door. “How can I not take that personally? Lucy? Open the door and talk to me.”

Silence. More rustling. My churning gut.

“Fine then,” I continued. “I’m moving out. I don’t want to live somewhere I’m not wanted.”

That’ll learn her.

She thinks I’m Ted Bundy. She thinks I eat babies. I went back to my room, fell onto my bed and sulked. I wondered what she could be freaked about. Then it hit me: Mark, that pussy ass bitch, snitched on me. And then there was the time at her party when I was hitting on her friends. I said some pretty weird stuff about prison rape in pop culture. I couldn’t stop the chatter so I got up and wrote her a Facebook message.

“Lucy. I know you think I’m a creep, but one day I’m going to help men around the world improve their self-esteem. I hope we can be cool. I’m giving my two week notice. Sebastian.”

I hit send. And then I regretted hitting send. And then I came to peace with my decision. No, I didn’t. And this thought process went on into the quiet night until I smoked a joint and finally passed out.

The days went by, and Lucy wouldn’t even look at me. She would get home from work, rush to her room and shut the door. Once I caught her in the kitchen and tried to confront her, but she just walked away, shooting me a bitchy look before slamming her door. I found out that both Mark, and Eric, had been talking shit about me. Everyone in their social circle knew I was studying to be a pua and since I worked with Mark, that meant everyone at work knew too. Fuck my life. I didn’t even want to be a man whore; I just wanted a pretty girlfriend that liked video games, deep books, self-help and sex. Well, maybe two pretty girlfriends. And they would share me—except when I went go on book tours which would be, “free time.”

Every day at work we changed seats so we’d be forced to socialize with the other slaves. It was designed so that we would never fit in, or get too comfortable. This week, Mark’s favorite gossip topic was the weirdo roommate who was obsessed with reading Machiavellian books about picking up girls. However, there was an amusing side effect; I noticed the girls at work were checking me out and hovering around my station. Some of the guys even asked me for dating advice. He wanted to alienate me, but instead created intrigue. Any press is good press—thanks bro. It was nice living with you, but I don’t fit in with the insecure anymore, or so I told myself. But still, after all this I would hang out with Mark and act like he wasn’t a total shit-talking, cokehead beta male. I suppose I’m worse since I’m tattling on him to everyone that will read this book. It’s really hard to make good friends. I don’t trust many people.

I came home one day to Eric’s intervention. There was a gay looking little hipster kid crying in the living room, flanked by two fat girls latched onto his arms. They were staring at Eric who was sitting on the living room floor in a poncho and pink sweat pants.

“Eric,” sniff, “we, care for you!” He said. “You’re killing yourself.”

Eric just stared at them, arms crossed. “Bro, I don’t even know you. We’ve hung out, like five times.”

“What are you talking about!? You know me soooo well!”

“Yeah, whatever. Piss off,” Eric said.

The girls all cooed, “Eric listen to him! We want to help you. You party too much!”

I went to my room and shut the door. That could be me in a few years, because I party too much. I checked my online dating profile. I had zero messages which was surprising since the previous evening I sent out twenty-seven messages. Apparently online dating wasn’t for me. I could hear one of the girls crying, and Eric telling them to, “Go the fuck home,” which they did shortly after. Good for him. Even though the guy was a total fuckup, I respected his devotion to debauchery and blatant disrespect for authority; both of which are great assets for aspiring racontours.

Since I moved to Montreal I’d lost fifteen pounds. I was biking to and from work five days a week and watching my calories, eating soup instead of sandwiches, and jogging. It showed in my face, my waist, and my game. Women were definitely more receptive when I looked fit and healthy. I grew my beard out to appear more masculine. I also bought skinny jeans, high-top runners, a v-neck and styled my hair. I caught myself in a store window: I was a hipster.

My two week notice arrived and I moved away from Lucy into a new apartment with a weird dude that never left his room, and a Spanish kid that couldn’t speak English. My bedroom was a tiny shack stuffed in the back of a dirty, dark, crooked hallway. The place also smelled moldy, like bubonic plague. Not exactly a pimp shack, but it was all I could find on short notice.

Olivia was back from her trip and I waited to meet at her apartment. We only saw each other about four times in the previous month, so our relationship was light. She rode up on her new red bike with that sexy body moving back and forth, back and forth, like a pretty bell. I liked her, but I’d found my interest waning. She’d cut herself along her arms, as if with a razor.

“Did you do that because of a boy?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Her face turned red. “I was on shrooms.”

“And you cut yourself because of a boy…”

“Yeah.”

“He’s not worth it. No guy is. Don’t fuck up your beautiful skin over some douche bag. You’re going to meet plenty of douche bags.”

“I know.”

She wanted to hang out often, but I’d rather be out meeting new girls. It was a sickness. Looking back, she was more interesting than most. Now that she’s older, I bet we would be great together. She was into music, but when I tried to talk about anything bigger, more philosophical, she’d just blink her eyes and laugh, tell me how interesting it was, and move on. She let me hypnotize her a few times which was fun, and fucking her was glorious. Her body was a carnival. But she was a kid—and so was I, sort of. Many westerners seem to stay children. Why should we grow up? If we need money, we get a job, or go to welfare. If we need food, we buy it. The only problem is as we age we look different. Our skin sags and puffs and wrinkles form, and hair falls out, and vanity fails us. Then even though we look old, we still feel like children. This is what happens to those who never experience hardship or pain or develop self-esteem based on anything other than their good-looks. Certain tribes send their children into the forest to learn survival skills. When they return, they’re deemed men. In North America, we play Call of Duty.

We locked up our bikes and went inside. Her roommates were in the living room, so we went to hers. We had to lean into the door with some force because something was holding it closed. I pushed it open for her and walked inside. Clothes were piled on top of books, on top of records, on top of dirty dishes, and shoes, and underwear, and newspapers. Her bed sheets were piled in the back corner under a pile of fashion magazines. There wasn’t a clean spot in the room. Even her bed was covered in miscellaneous make up kits, guitars, keyboard parts, vitamins. It was just like her last apartment, but worse. It was a fire hazard, or a scene from hoarders.

“It’s a bit messy, oopsy!” she said.

Damn. “Yeah, have you considered cleaning it?” I said dryly.

“Yah, I should do that for seriously.”

She’s eighteen, she’s scattered, she’s a slob. A really hot scattered slob. We cleared the bed and I made her put new sheets on. She played Bloc Party on her IPhone. I got her down on her back and really gave it to her, recently freed convict style. After all, I didn’t know if I would ever sleep with an eighteen year old again. I didn’t get any in high school, and I wanted to make up for lost time. As we were fucking she said, “Choke me.”

“What? Your neck?”

“Yeah, here,” she said, motioning with her hand.

“How hard?”

“I dunno. I’ve never done it before. And slap me too.”

“Ok,” I said. And I choked her a little, and I slapped her face a few times, very lightly.

“Harder,” she said.

“Ok, ok! Like this?” I slapped her face a bit harder.

“Yes. Yes”

“And like that? You like that? Are you my little slut?” I said as I smashed into her.

“Yes I do! I am!”

I pulled her hair hard as I rammed her doggy-style, slapping her ass until the cheeks were pink. I bit her neck, I pinched her nipples just a little too hard, I talked dirty to her about how I owned her little pussy. She loved it. It was great fun. I went all Fifty Shades of Sebastian on her ass. That was the first time a girl asked me to dominate her. Now I always throw some nasty games into my sex. Just a little bit.

Afterwards we were lying on our backs smoking a joint, and she said, “I haven’t heard from you in a week. What do you do all the time?”

“I’ve been working all day and going out all night.”

“Why go out all night. You know, I really like you. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“You missed my body.”

She bit her lip and looked at me, then out the window.

“Olivia, I have to tell you.”

“Yeah,” she said, still looking away.

“I didn’t come to Montreal to find a girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“I left one in Vancouver.”

“Oh.”

She was stifling her tears. I felt like a real bastard. Like a dirty fucking player. There was no connection. I needed a girl that was on my level, wherever that was, and this girl wasn’t. Not yet anyway. She was cute and eager, but that wasn’t enough for me. I’m pretty sure most girls act less intelligent than they are. They don’t want to seem smarter than their men, because most men are idiots. But shit, I didn’t know anything when I was eighteen either. I still don’t know anything except that there’s lots I don’t know-that I don’t know.

“Hey, we can still hang out. Just don’t expect me to be boyfriend material right now,” I said.

You’re a fucker.

“I wish I wouldn’t go with every boy that asks me to come with him.”

You’re a real bastard.

“Yeah, me neither. Don’t do that,” I said.

There’s no such thing as no strings attached sex. Every conquest leaves a little emotional trail that follows you like a wounded puppy. You’ll look back at times and see its hopeful, sad face, and go, “Awwww.” And then you’ll feel sort of bad. If you can’t deal with that, then you aren’t cut out for this. Some people say love is nothing more than a chemical reaction designed for pair bonding. I had no idea. I just knew this wasn’t the girl, and I needed to try more. Many more.

“Come here,” I said, pulling her naked body towards me, and turning up the music.

Chapter 17

Sarah (The walk-away)

I met her on the street, on my way home at three a.m. from a good party near St. Viateur St. I think I was introduced by someone, but didn’t notice her until she was suddenly on my left flank, looking up with big half-moon eyes, and then our arms suddenly brushing against each other. I’d been targeted. She was short, decent breasts, ok legs, but a great face. She would make a nice Victorian era painting.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she replied, stroking her hair over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Sebastian,” I looked her up and down, slowly. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Sarah!”

“Were you at the party I was at? I didn’t see you,” I asked.

“I was there, but I was hiding from you,” she said, batting her eyes coquettishly.

“Why were you hiding?”

“Because, I wanted to hide,” she said, and punched me in the arm.

“Yeah,” I said, “because you like me. Here, pull my finger.”

She laughed. “What no way! I’m not pulling that. Anna this guy wants me to pull his finger!”

“Do it, dooooo it,” Anna said.

Anna was walking with another random guy, who was doing a good job keeping her entertained, so I could work on my girl.

“Bagels. Let’s get bagels!” Sarah exclaimed.

We went into the bagel shop, one of hundreds scattered around Montreal. They stay open all night and fill up with party kids looking for three a.m. carbs. We stuffed our faces and I got Sarah’s phone number. She seemed pretty down, but I was exhausted from drinking and hitting on unreceptive women all night. Now that I found one all I wanted to do was go to bed. Pickup can be emotionally, intellectually, and physically exhausting.

I texted Sarah the next night and she invited me to a loft party in Mile End. I took the metro then walked to her house. I heard women giggling on the other side. She opened the door and was much prettier than I remembered. Her dark hair was hanging naturally, with just slight curls near the end. She had a little pink flower braided in just above her left ear. She wore blue jeans and her complexion wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t mind because she had a big, round butt. She was also twenty six, which was cool.

“Hey, I’ll just be a minute. Here have some wine,” she said, shoving the bottle at me. Then she disappeared into the bathroom. Anna walked in wearing yoga shorts and a tank top. “Hey bud,” she said.

“What’s up Anna? You going out tonight? Nice outfit.”

“Oh this old thing?” she said with a laugh.

She paraded back and forth across the living room, putting on a show, swinging her hips, sticking it out while she sorted through her record collection. I consider taking her right there, for a quick one before Sarah came back—but I wasn’t that gangsta. Women always do this; they have no interest in you until your dick gets near their friend, then the female competition gene kicks in. They have no honor. I don’t blame them. They need a winner to protect them from Saber Tooth Tigers, and rogue Neanderthal rape gangs.

The party wasn’t far and the night was warm so we walked. Sarah laughed at all my stupid jokes like, “What would you rather sleep with George Bush for one million dollars, or Johnny Depp for free?”

“Duh, Johnny Depp.”

We arrived at the party; a sprawling warehouse transformed into a club with pounding trance and dub-whatever. There were a few pretty girls in their scenester uniforms and their beta-male counterparts with their neatly coiffed hair and elf shoes. I had to suppress my now ingrained addiction of relentlessly approaching every girl in the room. Today I arrived with one, and when I saw her talking and hugging some tallish hipster dude I had my regrets about coming into her world. It’s always better to bring a girl into your world, where you know people and she’s off balance.

“Sebastian, this is Christian,” she said, holding onto his bicep with both hands. She had an apologetic expression. I’ve always been intuitive—it’s a Piscean trait. I had a feeling they’d banged before and were considering hooking up again. Fuck that. I’ve lost out to good looking guys far too many times. I’m the new Sebastian. I win.

“Hey man,” he said, shaking my hand.

“Hi there,” I replied. And there was this awkward moment. I mean, who’s banging Sarah tonight buddy? You’re not prepared. You haven’t read The Art of War, or The Prince, or The Art of Seduction. You haven’t been yelled at, threatened, ridiculed by hundreds of women. You haven’t traveled across the country to learn how to pickup girls and spend seven days and nights a week for five months doing so.

We all sat down, and he leaned into her, not away like I did. He was working hard to keep her attention. I gazed around the room—everywhere but at Sarah. I wouldn’t play the eager-man game. I kept a slight smile on my face to appear carefree and happy. His desire was transparent. They talked about people they both knew and things they’d done together. Then he got up and went to the bathroom.

“We have a history,” Sarah told me.

“I can tell.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries.”

I was getting a little worried, but I wouldn’t allow myself to fall into a scarcity mindset. It would manifest itself in my words and actions. He came back and sat with us, again ignoring me and talking to her. He mentioned something about her shoes and how much he liked them.

“Oh those ugly things?” I said, glancing at her chucks. “I told her to dress down tonight so people wouldn’t think she was a prostitute.”

She glared at me, but with a coy grin. His eyes got big and there was a moment between us men—an eternity in a second—like when two great beasts lock horns and the smaller of the two projects defeat. I have you now you bastard, you tall, good looking, skinny jean, put a bird on it motherfucker. This is for all the girls you banged with the cocaine in your pocket, by the shitty Arcade Fire rip-off band you play in, and the feminist study groups you attend on Thursdays only because you think it will get you ass.

“I like your shoes too man,” he said, referring to my cheap Aldo specials.

“Thanks!” I said, and reached over to give him a high five—trying my best to appear civil.

He started talking to her again. “So what happened last week? I lost you at Chris’s gig.”

I interrupted. “She was kidnapped by a man on stilts. He had a big dick; it needed its own stilt. A dick stilt. A, Dilt. She spent the night aligning his chakras and smoking opium.”

“Totally! It was amazing,” she said, kicking my leg under the table.

Christian looked at us and frowned. “Oh, I’m sure she’s not that type of girl.”

“Sure she is, aren’t you?” I asked her.

“Yeah. I’m just a total slut.”

After a few more minutes of this horrible banter he got up to answer his cell phone.

I said to Sarah, “Hey, wanna get out of here?”

She looked over at him, then at me, “Umm, well, let me just go and talk to him first.”

“Oh ok,” I said, smiling. “Well, I’m going to start walking east on St. Denis, and if you say goodbye to him quickly, you can catch me before I’m gone.”

I got up slowly, held her eyes for a few seconds, then turned and started walking towards the door. I didn’t look back. I had to believe in myself. I got to the stairs and went down the spiral, past some kids sniffing things and drinking things, until I reached the ground floor exit. I stepped out onto the pavement and moved forward at a decent pace with the sound of bass fading with the distance. It was a nice night. I wouldn’t mind walking home. I heard the door open and slam behind me, then the pitter patter of little feet on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” Sarah yelled.

I didn’t look at her until she caught up.

“Well hello there, m’lady.”

We walked for a minute in silence until she said, “Were you really going to leave me there?”

I let it hang while I thought out my answer.

“Nah. I don’t think so, maybe.”

“You would have?”

“Nah.”

“Ok then. You’re weird.”

“Better than normal.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Me neither,” I said.

We got back to her place and into bed. We kissed a little but she shut down. “You can’t fuck me tonight,” she said. “I’m on my period.”

“I don’t care. I’m a vampire.”

“Not tonight, ok?”

“Ok.”

The pickup community calls this, “last minute resistance,” but I think she was just pissed off. They say you should get up, check your email or something. Do something to make her feel a sense of loss—but I didn’t care. I went to her bathroom and rubbed one out. As I drifted away into the void with one hand on her ass, I wondered if all this was worth it. I should probably be in university learning to be a doctor or lawyer or carpenter or something. Not  a fucking pickup artist.

Chapter 18

Orgasms (Dream catchers)

I went out every night, seven nights a week. I didn’t just want to practice pickup, I wanted to be great at it. Fuck mediocrity. I’d follow the usual routine of slaving at the Call Center of Doom, ride my bike home, smoke a bowl of Montreal weed and power nap, wake up, read pickup and self-help books, watch videos, then go out. I’d been on a handful of dates with some cool chicks, but nothing was panning out. Maybe I needed to work out more, or find a social circle, or meditate. I wasn’t sure when it would get easier, but I was definitely focused. I always believed it would pan out. I had to. I had to change my life.

Most of the girls I met were between eighteen and twenty-three. They went to the clubs; they were the ones I couldn’t get in high school. I’d tasted success and I wanted more, so I kept up the regimen because it was working. I rarely stuttered or had panic attacks. I was funnier, more confident; I dressed better and had a small group of friends, mostly guys from the pickup lair, people I had approached and the social circles of various roommates. I was happier, much happier.

Olivia found herself a real boyfriend, so we stopped hanging out. It was just like that. It ended. I wasn’t sad; it was more like I lost a cool pair of pants. I guess I’m a jerk. One day I got on Facebook and searched for Montana, the BJ cat girl that gave me a fake number. I found her and sent a poetic and heartfelt message about how I’d love to see her again. It was a little bit sappy, and the pickup guys would call it beta, but I had nothing to lose, and it worked because two days later she agreed to meet me for drinks.

I arrived at eleven p.m.. The bar was dimly lit, with high tables and scattered couples sharing stories and drinking cocktails. Montana was already there, and when she stood up I kissed her on the cheeks, as is the custom in Quebec.

“You look nice,” I said.

“Thanks. I think I look like shit. I stayed out too late. How are you?”

“Awesome. I’m living the dream.” I took a sip of my rye and ginger without lowering my eyes from hers.

“The dream huh?”

“Yeah, the dream.” I slapped her thigh lightly.

She moved closer, so I put my arm around her shoulder. We were a match. We fit. It’s always best to assume you’ve already succeeded—that you’re the shit. Narcissism works.

Atta boy, champ.

She went to school at Concordia, studied a little bit of everything for no apparent reason. Her favorite things were long trips to faraway places where she could hula-hoop on beaches and surf. Pretty girls love beaches because they can practice their two favorite hobbies: being attractive and being comfortable.

She was impressed how I picked her up, and she loved my fictional dirty talk. She called me, “Mr. Writer.” At one point, I put down my drink and kissed her, with tongue. I licked her straight teeth and she bit my lip. Her eyes got me. They were just so big and pretty.

“You weren’t impressed enough to give me a real number,” I said.

“I totally did.”

“Nope. You changed the last digit.”

“It was an accident. I promise.”

I adjusted my crotch because my boner was in an awkward position. I think she noticed.

“You owe me, bitch.”

“Hey!” She pinched my stomach fat. “What do you write about anyway?”

“Mostly about myself, people, odd situations, women.”

“Really… so are you going to write about me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“We’ll see what I can learn from you, I guess.”

She finished her drink. A few guys at another table were checking her out. She ignored them.

“I’d like to read some of your stories,” she said. “I wrote a few short stories too, but they’re not very good.”

“It takes practice.”

“Yeah I know.”

“So, what else do you do?” I asked.

The server dropped off two more drinks. They were good and strong. We both took big sips.

“I’m good at lots of stuff,” she said.

“Like what?”

“I make things, earrings, jewelry, dream-weavers.”

“And sell them when you travel?”

“Yeah. I sell them sometimes.”

“Are you going to make me a dream-weaver?” I asked. “I have dreams.”

She leaned back and sized me up. “I don’t know. I don’t really know you.”

“Well, I put my dick inside you. You know me pretty well I’d say.”

She laughed, squinting her big, pretty eyes. “That’s not knowing. That’s just a blow job.”

“So get to know me better then.”

“Ummm, nah. I just want to fuck you,” she said.

Dude, dude, yes!

I know, I know!

This was the window, time to climb through before she changed her mind.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, looking at the time.

“Ok, my place is a block away.”

As we walked back to her apartment, I felt in my back pocket for my condoms. I’d only brought two. I kept my hand on her behind and played with it. The booze was in my blood and my dick was still hard. I stopped to kiss her on the doorstep and pressed it against her so she’d know I was ready. She reached down and gave it a squeeze. Good girl. No bullshit. We got inside and she went to the bathroom. I took of my shoes and jacket and explored her apartment. It was clean. Lots of books on her shelf, dream-weavers in her windows. It smelled like patchouli, she was a bit of a hippie. Montana came out and walked straight to me, kissed me on the mouth and played with my balls. Nineteen year old glory! She started walking backwards, slowly, towards her room and fell onto the bed, pulling me down with her. I sucked on her neck, I squeezed her thighs. She made little grateful noises and scratched lightly at my shirt, so I stood up and took it off.

“Tell me another story Mr. Writer.”

“About?”

“I don’t know, you’re the writer.”

She undressed until we were both in our underwear.

“There once was a man who came out of the east,” I said, and licked from her belly button to her neck. She sighed. “He travelled the world seeking out adventure. His conquests of women became the stuff of legend.” I got on top of her and ground my crotch into hers. She let out an encouraging moan, her eyes widened. “One day he met an orphaned farmer girl. He promised her five shillings in exchange for a place to sleep, but she knew her father would refuse such a handsome man sleeping under his roof with his daughter.” I pulled out one of her breasts, squeezed it, and stuffed it in my mouth, licking all the way around her nipple. I reached down and felt her pussy; it was soaked through her panties. I leaned back and continued.

“So that night she left her window ajar so the man could slip in when her father went to sleep.”

“Did he come in?” she asked, between heavy breaths.

“Of course, at one a.m., she heard him at the window and then felt him slip into her bed.”

I pushed aside her panties and slipped two fingers inside of her. She moaned and bucked her hips. I flipped her over onto her stomach and kicked off my boxers. I kept one hand at work on her inner thigh and used the other to slip on my rubber. Practice makes perfect and I’d had lots of practice lately.

“She didn’t think she would sleep with him,” I continued. “But his presence in her bed was too much for her, it made her pussy wet knowing that her father lay asleep, just down the hall.”

Then I poked my thumb into her pussy, just a little, not enough.

“Ask for it,” I commanded.

“Yes!”

“Louder.”

“Oh please, I want it, I want it!”

“What’s my name?”

“Sebastian, I want it Sebastian.”

“Beg me!” I slapped her on the ass.

“Pleeeeease.”

“I like it when you beg.”

I slapped her ass again, pulled her head towards me and put my tongue in her mouth, pushed her face down into the pillow, and ground the tip of my cock around the outside of her pussy in little circles, only allowing the tip in, and then taking it away. She was soaked.

“Please Sebastian.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me!”

“So dirty and bad!”

“I am,” she moaned.

I flipped her back over so she could look me in the eyes.

“You gave me a fake number. I don’t think you need this dick.”

“Fuck you!” She laughed.

I carried on with my story about the secret medieval affair, while I finger-banged her. She kicked her legs out play-violently at my chest. It was all part of the act. When she couldn’t take it anymore, I said, “And when the man sensed her moment of weakness, he pushed his dick into her!”

She laughed just as I penetrated her. “Ohhh, mmm, haha.”

“Shut up. I’m the writer,” I said, and pulled my fingers out. Then I spread her legs and pushed my cock deep inside and it was…

The loosest pussy I’ve ever been in. It was like sticking a wiener into a deep bucket of pudding. I tried various angles of attack: low to high, left to right, ass up, ass down; all while reciting improv poetry. She went mental, but I had to focus on the various whimpers, cries, moans and other sensations because my safely wrapped dick couldn’t feel shit. The wonderful girl, she came three times. She was designed for orgasms. She had a big, fat, magical pussy. I popped once, like usual. She was so fun, even with her broken muffin she still got me off.

And then I washed my dick. She walked into the kitchen and poured me a drink of water.

“Sorry but you can’t stay over,” she said.

“Oh. That’s ok.”

“I have homework.”

“Cool.”

And then I went home and posted the story on the forums, for my legacy. They loved it as usual, the faceless, horny men of the Internet. I was a bit bummed she kicked me out. I wanted a girlfriend.

Chapter 19

“Good girl?” (Le Guerrier)

Sarah texted me and wanted to go out again. I was pretty sure she’d be dtf this time if everything worked out. I thought I’d blown it with my walk out on our last date, but she liked me. She was sort of masculine. I’d been meeting lots of girls that acted masculine lately. It was like they wanted to be the leader. I don’t like that. I like being the man. The best women I ever dated were from Mexico, Brazil, and Columbia. They’re still girls. North Americans have it all backwards. It’s a role reversal.

I’d been seeing Montana about twice a week, and the sex was great, but that’s all. We would fuck and then she’d kick me out. I’d never been with such an orgasmic girl. I could usually make her come three or four times a session, but she didn’t want anything else to do with me. It was like, the closer I came to being awesome with women, the further I was. In my head, I wanted to be a player, but really, I wanted a girlfriend. My standards are just higher than my attractiveness. I’m like a cute puppy that you want to cuddle, but I smelled like puppy pee.

I’d been reading two books called, A New Earth, and, The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle. Now, before going out I would meditate for half an hour to get in The Now. I loved losing myself within myself. It’s like that scene in Being John Malkovich, where he crawls through the portal leading inside his own head. That’s what I’d been doing my entire life; crawling around inside of my skull, lost, pursued by Minotaurs.

Meditation is dope, but not as effective as cheap French beer. Practicing pickup seven nights a week was taking its toll. It makes you a little bit weird… no, a lot weird. I no longer saw people as people—just opportunities. I didn’t view women as women, but more like characters in a video game. Of course, it was different if they actually dated me, but I was frustrated from all the flaking. The only way to deal with the tremendous amount of rejection is to view the whole process as something separate from my reality, so it isn’t personal. As for approaching, it was really no big deal anymore. Just an action you take—something to do. Like making toast.

I met her at her place. Sarah was in her bra and Mickey Mouse boxers with a French cigarette dangling from her thin lips. Her feet were on the coffee table and she was painting her toes pink. I love pretty feet, not sure why. Cute toes, they just look like smooth little sausages or something. I leaned over and pinched her foot.

“Ow! No pinching, Sebastian.”

“I want to bite them.”

“What? Why?”

“They’re too cute.”

“You’re a weird guy.”

“Yeah. I am.”

She got dressed in a short white dress, and we left for a local bar to catch the first band. Sarah got a call so she stopped outside the bar to talk. I said I’d meet her inside. It was one of those hip French places and there were more pretty women than handsome men. It was some sort of feeding frenzy and I regretted being on a date in a venue with so many options. At one point, this little brunette cutie walked up and said something in French.

“Pardon,” I said. “Je ne parle pas français.”

“Oh, you are very handsome. I would like to buy you a drink.”

What? I almost gawked.

Montreal rules. I’m standing here and this random French girl is pressing her breasts onto my arm and there’s Sarah at the corner bar staring daggers—poison eyes. I wasn’t too worried. I just smiled and waved. If she saw the girl approach me, well I probably looked pretty damn cool. Pre-Selection, baby. I’m the leader of men, and all that. I politely refused the drink.

Sarah had some big native dude with her; he looked like Jacob, the werewolf guy from Twilight. I said, “What’s up?”

He was harmless enough—I mean, he wasn’t trying to bang her, or he already did, so he wouldn’t be a cock-block. We put back a pitcher of draft then bounced to a party about twenty blocks south; a bit of a trek. I didn’t mind, it would give me time to practice my verbal game. Sarah wanted another drink so we dropped into this pool hall and ordered a few Gin n tonics. I went to the can, and when I was done there was a well-dressed man in a blazer and skinny jeans, sporting a curly mustache and a fedora whispering into Sarah’s ear; she was all toothy smiles. He was speaking in French. Not cool. I don’t know French. This guy was a threat to my bang. A real French seducer. I was surprised he wasn’t carrying a baguette.

I’m always a gentleman when it comes to these invaders. My strategy is to invite the cock-block into polite yet well-articulated banter, thus causing him to engage his logic. Men love logic, but nothing shrivels anxious labia like logic.

“Nice to meet you sir,” I said. “What do you do in Montreal?”

He snorted back in a thick accent, “I am ay feelm maker.”

“Non?” I said, caught off guard. This was bad, double-plus bad. He had a cool hobby.

“That’s so interesting,” Sarah said.

Bad-not-good. He didn’t use this story to brag, but instead I did. I brought it up for him. What a smart French bastard, obviously an advanced Dandy. I pulled at my straw and drank my gin.

“What sort of films do you make?” Sarah asked, playing with her hair, which was according to my books, an unconscious sign of attraction. I ordered another drink.

“Mon-Ami I am working on a story about love.” He took a long haul from his cigarette. Sarah’s friend rolled his werewolf eyes; I groaned.

“That’s awesome!” She said.

I didn’t want to seem like a dick; I needed to be abundant. There are many women and the universe will manifest all of my desires. I’d just pretend I was cool. They wouldn’t know I had to approach seventy girls to get this date, or that nine out of ten phone numbers led to nothing. They didn’t know about the deep dark, Mordor-like frustrations I’d endured, or of my glorious success.

“Can I see some of your films?” I asked him, thinking he had no films to see.

“Oh oui, I have eh many of my copies at my house, if you would be caring to watch zem. I also have deh Shiraz, and eh, my bong eh.”

“Oh that sounds fun!” Sarah said with far too much damn enthusiasm.

Why did she even invite me out? Bitch. No, she’s not a bitch. She’s a woman and he’s a new shiny thing. I should beat him right on his stupid face. No, I’m good. I’m a good guy and I don’t care. I’m leading her right to him. This is bad. He may be a Jedi, like myself, or at least force-sensitive.

“Hey bro,” I said, “I really like your Style, it’s a fun Game, you have lots of Mystery.” He blinked a few times, said, “Merci,” and turned back to Sarah. I guessed he wasn’t in the French lair. He must be a natural douche-bag. That’s even worse, I thought. I even liked him. She must love him.

Then, in a flash of brilliance, I came upon my answer. Why resist? Be Zen. Go with the flow.

“Sorry bro but we have to go to this party. Hey, why don’t you come?” I said.

“Well ehhhh, I don’t know ehhh,” he mumbled, taking off his cap to wipe his brow.

“Yea come with us,” Sarah said.

I suppose it was my ego, but I believed I was better. If I gave her every opportunity to go with this guy, would she? Most guys would want to punish him, mock him, fight him. I’d do the opposite. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, so they say. I had a secret. This was an Anglo party, a hipster party, and I knew many of these kids. This guy would be out of his element, and if worse came to worst I could meet some new girls. I’m like a pickup Dick Cheney.

“Ehh, of course I would like to be coming to dis party,” he agreed.

They conversed in French for the remaining ten blocks, so I talked to the Jacob the werewolf.

“I don’t like that sleazy dude,” he said.

“Yeah he’s alright, he’s got some game.”

“You need to do something.”

“I will,” I assured him with a pat on the back.

“No, you need to do something.”

“Uhhh, yeah, I know.”

“She likes you, but thinks you’re weird.”

“Most do.”

We walked quietly for another block. “How do you know her?” I asked.

“She’s my ex-girlfriend.”

“Oh. I see.”

We got to the house party and I left Sarah at the door. I high fived the first girl I saw just to look cool. I’ve known her all my life, I told myself, because if you don’t believe it Sebastian, nobody will. You always want to look like you’ve known everyone for years. Every stranger is your long-lost best friend. After a year of practicing cold approach pickup I was able to have a really good time in any party environment, even with complete strangers. While most people would stand in the background clutching their drinks and scrambling inside their skulls, I’d be meeting new people and having fun. I’d come so far from the nervous, depressed kid with bitch-tits. I suddenly wished I could be with my old friends back in Vancouver, just to show them what I’d done. But I knew they wouldn’t care, or understand. Maybe they would. Who knows?

I glanced back at Frenchy; he seemed incredibly out of place, eyes darting about in his head. She looked slightly put off too. Neither of them were talking to anyone.

Excellent! Magnifico!

You would think that ignoring the girl I came with, and leaving her in the clutches of a charming French man would be a terrible strategy, but it’s quite the contrary. Women are attracted to men of abundance. My complete lack of neediness or jealousy, my ability to attract other women before her eyes, with no regard for her feelings actually makes her more attracted to me. All this time, the French guy is trying to build rapport with her and I’m breaking it. It means I have standards, game, and freedom of choice. Or, so I hoped.

After half an hour of socializing and flirting with random, non-committal girls, I came back to Sarah and Frenchy. They were standing in the corner silently gazing, possibly bored. Superb, I thought. He ran himself dry. Frenchy again mentioned his house and his bong.

“Well, ummm, I’m with him,” she said, pointing at me.

“Good, good!” He said, stroking his mustache. “You will eh come weet us, no?”

“Sure, let’s get the hell out of this dump,” I said.

You wish pal.

As we exited the party and turned onto the main road, I flagged down a taxi. This was my chance—all or nothing, glory or death. If we went back to Frenchy’s house, I’d be done. He’d pull out that hookah, put on one of his brilliant short films and drag her to his room. I could picture the whole sordid affair and it wasn’t pretty. I put my arm around Sarah’s shoulder, looked at Frenchy and said, “Sorry man. We have to go. It was really nice to meet you.” His eyes narrowed, his shoulders slumped. Yes friend, this is what defeat feels like. I’m sorry, you were a fine opponent, but I’m a P.I.M.P. As I pushed her into the cab she looked back at him, then at me, then at the cab and back to Frenchy and said, “Bye.”

We drove off.

She looked at me accusingly. “Oh, you can find him on Facebook,” I said, reaching out and pulling her in.

I went to kiss her; she hesitated, gave me the stink eye, then submitted. We did it lightly a few times and then made-out. I put my hand on her thigh and with a newborn dove’s softness, grazed her pussy. Yes Sarah, I am marriage material. I am great. I am Sebastian, the pickup artist.

We got to her apartment. Anna was doing yoga in the living room, in the dog position. “Hi Anna,” I said as we passed by to Sarah’s room. She smiled at me. I think I liked Anna better than Sarah. Sarah’s sort of a bitch to me. I could have Anna, I told myself. I could have any woman. I could have a condo on Mars.

I shut the door and pushed Sarah to the bed, which was becoming my patented move. She pulled off her top, then the rest came off like a great event. I reached into to my pocket for the condom and she didn’t say anything, which was good. Some women will shut down at the first sign they’re about to get fucked. “It just happened!” They’ll say. A few minutes later I was behind her, strapped up and ramming her doggy style, with her head bumping into the wall, probably waking her neighbors. I felt pretty damn great about myself, so I blurted out, “Good girl!”

She stopped bucking her hips, looked back at me and said, “Excuse me? Did you just say good girl?”

I halted mid-thrust for a moment, stupefied. What is this, some sort of chick test? Oh right… she’s a feminist. I ignored her and continued pumping for another two minutes, I flipped her over a few times and blew my load in triumph. She wasn’t nearly as impressed as I was.

As we drifted off to sleepy land I imagined Frenchy at home, sucking his bong and watching his short films, cursing my name. I’m sorry friend, you can’t win them all. I should have got his number; he’d make a good wingman.

Chapter 20

Abode (Superman)

My new roommate was weird. He slept all day in his stanky room, and refused to socialize except when cooking his lunch, which he would lecture on about with great gaiety. “It’s all about the whole grains and organics. Don’t eat that crap out of a can.” Then he would return to his room and lock the door, probably to furiously masturbate to kiddie porn.

I gave my notice on the third day. Eventually, out of pity, I told locked door-man about the dating sciences and why I was practicing pickup, how great it was, and why he should check it out. I offered to teach him, free of charge. He told me I was weird and a manipulator of women. He was quite upset. After that I saw even less of the guy. The Spanish homie asked me what happened, but we couldn’t communicate so I spelled it out in Google Translator. He typed back, “He is shit. I don’t like him. Ja ja ja ja.”

I texted Sarah a few times to hang out, but she replied with, “I’m really busy with school. I’ll call you.” So I took this as, “Not gonna happen again.” I wondered where I’d screwed up. Maybe it was calling her a good girl, or all the damn cock-block battles. I’ll never know. Most attractive women are very unforgiving. You make one mistake and it’s game over. It’s not like they need us. They can make good money, they have employment insurance, they have their sex. If you mess up, they find a guy that gets it right, or they slut around looking for Mr. Universe until they’re fat and single at thirty-six, sitting by the nickel slots and wondering where all the, “real men,” have gone.

I was realizing that in order to figure this out, I would have to piss a lot of people off. I wasn’t quite cool with that, but it’s either be a creepy douchebag—or lonely for life. I’d heard that meaningless sex can’t fulfill you, but it’s hard to relate when you need to work your ass off just to get some.

My meaningless sex was fantastic. I would love to have loads of meaningless sex, at least until I met my goddess. I had to get about twenty solid phone numbers, not counting the twenty or so bad ones, to get one girl to meet me. It sucked. It shouldn’t be this hard. But I still felt inspired, like a birdie falling out of its nest and flying away to avoid poachers.

I looked online for a new roommate and met Alexandro, a thirty-one year old Venezuelan. I went to his apartment to meet him. He looked like Superman, tall, tanned, buff. When I met him on his doorstep, I asked if he had a girlfriend. He chuckled.

“Man, man, man! I’m a fucker man! I have two girlfriends.”

It was perfect. Here I was, moving in with what the pickup nerds called, a natural: A real ladies man, as opposed to the guys that read books on how to get laid. He told me that in his country, boys are taught to pickup girls at a young age. It was discussed over the dinner table by your father. In fact, if you couldn’t pull ass by fourteen, there was something wrong with you. Maybe you were gay.

Alexandro said, “Yeah man, let’s pick up some girls. We can share them.” And by share I’m sure he meant spit-roast. You know, one end in the front, the other in the…y’know, like a pig over a fire-pit.

I told him about a dating coach named Neil Strauss, and how he said you could create a threesome by initiating a move called a, “dual-induction massage.” He laughed at me, “What is this bullshit man? Dual what? Man, man, man! Sebastian! You are learning from nerds. Just pull your dick out and tell them what to do. They like it that way. If they give you shit, you laugh at them and kick them out.”

“Woa. That’s badass.”

“Yeah man. Be a badass.”

Here lay the wisdom of the Latin man, born of maize fields and Inca gold. He teased me a lot. I’d tell him about something I’d read; he’d mock me and then mock the guru who wrote it. It’s hard to argue with a guy who’s been with over a hundred girls, had countless threesomes and open relationships. He really did have two girlfriends; one Spanish and one Asian. He called them Spanish girl and Asian girl. He’d been with both for over two years. They never came over without a large bag of groceries, and if they arrived empty handed he’d send them to the grocery store, so they always had food. He liked to cook, so they’d help him by chopping the veggies and washing the dishes, then he’d teach them Salsa in the living room and fuck them silly. He shared some of his dancing and his advanced sex techniques with me, which I was always grateful for.

“You want to hold her over the edge of the bed, so she feels like she’s going to fall, and your strength is saving her. If you let her go, she falls. But you’re still fucking her, so it’s really hot. Sometimes I get her ass in the air and put my foot on her face, hardcore dominance, man. They love that shit, being treated like a slut. They love it! Don’t listen to what anyone says. They’re all dirty!”

He was also somewhat emotionally abusive. I heard the girls crying from time to time. “Alex. I let you fuck me however you want, I bring you food, you never come out to meet my friends. I let you sleep with whoever you want! Maybe you want me to leave?”

“Fine! Leave then! Get out! Get the fuck out!” He’d yell. And he’d kick them out, just like that. “She’ll be back in a week man,” he’d say. “She can’t find a man like me, not in Canada. Nobody can fuck her like me and nobody gives her what she needs like I do. The men here are pussies who can’t fuck.” And he was right, apparently, because they always came back.

He would ignore her text messages for seven days, and then she’d show up on his doorstep with groceries. They’d cook, dance, and bang. “It’s all about orgasms man. You gotta give it to her like a man. They’ll always come back if you treat them like crap. Treat them like crap and love them like they’ve never had it.”

You may think these girls had low self-esteem or were stupid, retarded even, but they weren’t. They were attractive women with university degrees and good jobs. They just reacted well to being treated like shit from time to time. They were addicted to the emotions. Not all women want to have a sweet man all of the time—they get bored. Sometimes they need drama just for drama’s sake. Imagine your entire life you had men trying to please you, to make you comfortable, and all you want is a little danger for once, or someone to call you on your bullshit. Try walking up to a group of girls and saying, “What’s up sluts!?” and see what happens. Try it ten times with positive energy, not hateful like, and I guarantee that at least eight of those attempts will elicit positive reactions. They will laugh. I know because I’ve done it many times.

Sometimes when I talked to his women, they would flirt with me and Alexandro would get jealous. He tried not to show it, but he’d grind his teeth and make comments, mocking my clothes, or posture, or choice of food. “Why always rice man? Beans. Beans are good for you,” and, “Get to the gym. Become a man.”

I couldn’t help it, I was becoming attractive to all women. My energy was different. I didn’t have to try anymore, I just was. Women will often flirt with friends of their man unconsciously. It’s like they’re testing our abundance. Show jealousy or neediness and you risk losing your woman. I think he was smart enough to recognize how he was projecting himself. Many men can’t control jealousy at all. Jealousy is a disease of the mind. Why be jealous when any hour you can walk out your door and meet more girls? If a woman doesn’t want to be with you, fuck her. Seriously. Most chicks only cheat when their emotional, sexual, or monetary needs aren’t being met. But if you don’t plan on marrying, or paying for her shit, don’t worry about it. Just be prepared to find a new girlfriend every few years. And you better know how to make her laugh, intrigue her, lead her, and give her orgasms.

I spent many nights talking to Alex and learning from him. I’d tell him about my pickup adventures and though he thought I was weird, he learned a few things about game from me too. I started bringing various girls over and he was always impressed, though he’d bust on me about their age. “Bro, you need a woman. Not these… girls.” I’d ignore him though. I think he was jealous.

Despite all his sexual abundance and open relationship status, he wasn’t a happy guy. He had demons. I made note of that as well. Even physically beautiful people are fucked up. He didn’t like Canada or Canadians. He thought we were boring and cold. He’s probably right. Would I have such a hard time meeting women in Venezuela?

During my time living with him, I picked up a crazy nineteen year old named Samantha. It took me a month of texts and Facebook messages to finally have her meet me. I had to go to her house five times before she let me bang her, which for me, was a lot. She stopped letting me fuck her because she figured I was too old for her. Then I picked up a twenty-nine year old French girl who wouldn’t fuck me until I met her friends—so I met her friends and they all spoke French so they ignored me, and she stopped seeing me. Then I picked up another eighteen year old at a café by asking her about her book. She was reading The Diary of Anne Frank. I told her I used to sleep in a secret annex for fun. That got her. We didn’t last long. She was Jewish, I wasn’t. Then I picked up a twenty-one year old ballet dancer. She had the best legs ever, but just wouldn’t stop shit testing me with, “You should get a haircut. You should get a good job. You should blah, blah, blah,” so I ditched her. She wasn’t hot enough for me to deal with that crap, or so I told myself. Then I picked up a short haired twenty-five year old at a dance party. All I did was reach out, grab her hand, and pull. That was that. She took me home, did all the work, gave me a blowjob on her couch, and kicked me out. Never heard from her again. And it went on, and on with the girls, the phone numbers, the parties, the after parties, the bands, the festivals. And all this time I still got up every day to work in the Call Center of Doom.

Montreal wasn’t the place for permanent residence. It was a fantasy world of debauchery and short term relationships. At least it was for me. Finally after one and a half years in Montreal, I was getting results. But even though I was having all this sex, I was lonely.

I mostly hung out with Jeff and another guy, Charlie. Jeff was a good wingman and Charlie was good enough, a really smart dude. Charlie was a friend of Mark’s, and told me a story about how he painted this girls house in the hope that she would fuck him. “Friend, there’s a better way,” I told him. A few days and a few e-books later Charlie was a devout follower of all things pickup.

“It works!” He exclaimed.

After a few weeks of going out, he picked up a girl at three a.m. on a street corner. She had no money for a cab, so he took her to his house. A few weeks later, he slept with a nineteen year old blond girl he met at a party. Game worked, and I’d taught him.

Prior to meeting me, he hadn’t wet his wiener in twelve months. All he needed to do was quit being so… pathetic. Charlie remains my friend to this day. He ended up dating that girl he picked up on the street corner long term. She was crazy and alcoholic, go figure. But because of him, I gained confidence in teaching.

One day I got an email from my mother, telling me my sister was getting married. I got on the Internet and bought a one way ticket back to B.C. I was homesick. Montreal was a good time, but I was an outsider. I wanted to know if everything I’d learned would be applicable back home. I wanted to show my old friends the new me.

On one of my last nights, I posted a notice on Facebook:

“Friends. I’m leaving. Montreal was great but my adventure ends here. Buy me a beer tomorrow at Bar Biftek. Love Sebastian.”

The next night I sat there in the bar waiting like the Godfather, and random people would show up, buy me a beer, hug me and leave. I counted them, twenty-seven in total. It felt good to be popular. When I left at the end of the night, I had a girl on my arm and fifteen friends and acquaintances chanting, “Sebastian! Sebastian! Sebastian!” Most of them I cold-approached, or met through people I worked or lived with. Eric stopped by and bought me a beer. “I’ll miss you man!” He looked skinny and paler than usual. He told me he was going to live on a raw food vegan commune in Alaska. Good for him. Mark didn’t show up, and neither did Olivia, or any of the girls I’d banged. I’d been in Montreal for just over a year.

I couldn’t fall asleep that night, laying there listening to my girl-of-the-moment breathing softly. I didn’t want her. Her breath was bad and she needed to lose weight. What’s wrong with me? I thought. Why am I still fucking sad? Why do I feel lonely? Do I always need a warm hole to feel good about myself?

I had a great night, threw a party in my name, banged a willing woman and I feel empty? Maybe I don’t even care about women. Maybe all I want is attention and validation. I looked at the girl and she started snoring. There was a little bit of drool coming out of her mouth, onto my pillow. I pushed her over and tried to fall asleep. I needed to get up early to catch my flight.

“Goodbye Montreal,” I whispered to the dark.

Chapter 21

Penticton (Small town sluts)

On my way back to Vancouver, I stopped in Penticton for my sister’s wedding. My home is a small tourist town in the interior of British Columbia, Canada. It was carved out of the mountain by an ancient bastard of a glacier that over a five thousand year melt crawled its way to death (transformation?), leaving a desert valley and two magnificent lakes on either end. When I grew up here, an insecure, creative kid, I didn’t think I would ever leave. I feared I’d meet a nice girl and knock her up. Maybe I’d slave in a lumber mill, or a seafood restaurant. It wouldn’t be an unfortunate life—but not the stuff of legend or song.

I met my mom and sisters again. It was nice to see them. They asked about my trip, but I couldn’t tell them what I’d really been up to; they wouldn’t understand. They asked if I had a girlfriend yet. I told them I didn’t plan to get married, or have kids, so they would need to make twice the babies. They just laughed. They’re so cool.

Alexandro used to harass me about it, “Man, don’t you want to have kids one day?”

“Why?” I’d say.

“Why? Because that’s what people do.”

“Nah. I want to travel, make romance, adventure, fame.”

“You just haven’t met the right girl. One day you will and you’ll want to put a baby in her.”

“Fuck that. I don’t want it. I can barely afford rent, never mind a baby. Maybe I’ll get fixed.”

“You’re crazy. You’ll have kids one day.”

“No I won’t. What’s in it for me?”

He thought for a second.

“Who will take care of you?”

“Money.”

“No one will love you.”

“My brothers, nieces, nephews, sisters and their children, and all my ex-girlfriends and their children will love me.”

“Ha ha. Man, you’re a crazy man. Don’t you want to get married?”

“No. I will never get married. It’s madness. I’ve got nothing against being with one woman for eternity and beyond, but marriage makes no sense for me. I’m not a huntsman in the Sudan, and I don’t need some priest or lawyer to write a contract stating if I fall out of love I must fund my ex-woman for life.”

“Ha ha. Fuck Sebastian, you’re crazy. You’ll see. You’ll meet the right one. You just haven’t met her yet.”

He’s wrong, you’re right.

“Love is transitory.”

“Whatever man. You’ll find her.”

And at least once a week we’d argue about whether or not I’d have babies. But I just didn’t see the point of marriage or children. Sure when you’re old and feeble you’ll have someone to wipe your ass and feed you porridge. You’ll get to watch your younglings grow up bright and strong—and then, well then comes the disappointment. They decide to sell pot for a living, or they’re lazy, or they get addicted to video games and they end up hating you for being a parent since you represent oppression, and the ideals of a generation they have nothing in common with. Book Readers, they’ll call us.

Eventually, after fighting about their fucked-up lifestyle or their choice of friends, they’ll scream, “Fuck you Dad. I hate you!” and run away—only to contact you when they need money for food, drugs, or shelter. In the meantime your wife grows fat, cuts off access to her vagina, and you retire into a placid spiral of suburban torpidity. Yeah. No marriage or children for me.

Chapter 22

Les Trois, Part 1: Carly

(Luck is a quantum anomaly manifested by desire + action)

Ok, let’s talk about me and how awesome I am, again. Montreal was my nest, and I fell like the runt until my feeble wings would flap. One day in Penticton, I picked up three different girls; proof that city women are spoiled with choice, and that small towns would be easier. The first one I pulled out of a coffee shop, another off the beach, and the third from a bar. The barista was Carly. She was eighteen, tall, blond, and incredibly pretty. I scouted her behind the counter, and asked for the bathroom key. Then I said, “Hey. What do you do for fun in this town?”

“Me. I just go to the beach,” she said, all smiles.

“So you like to swim. You’re not a Pisces, are you?”

“No, I’m an Aquarius.”

“Ahhh. That means you love water, you’re a good friend, very loyal, and sometimes a bit neurotic.”

“Ah!” She pouted. “I’m not neurotic! What’s your sign?”

“I’m a Pisces.”

She passed her co-worker the latte she was working on. “Oh,” She said, and gently stroked the nozzle of the cappuccino machine with a rag, “what does that mean?”

“I go with the flow, the water. I’m an artist, and perpetually chasing something that eternally eludes me.”

“Wow. So you’re… confused?”

“More indecisive, but I know what I want. I’ve been sort of working on myself.”

“What’s that,” she said, now totally focused on me, “that you want?”

I closed my eyes and made a pained expression.

“To… take a leak.”

“Asshole!” She laughed. “It’s over there.”

I went to the bathroom and glanced back. Carly and her co-worker were huddled, whispering and peeking at me. Excellent. Girl talk. As long as it wasn’t about how creepy I am, I was in. I returned for my Americano.

“Well take me to the beach when you get off work. What time?” I asked.

“Umm, ok! I’m off at four.”

“Sweet. I’ll see you at four.”

It was never this easy in a city. I love eighteen year olds; so willing to try new things. Am I a filthy bastard? Well, I’m not old enough to be her dad yet. I just can’t help being attracted to young women; they’re so fun and youthful and adventurous and hot, and nobody will know but me.

Fuck the haters, seriously. Maybe we’ll fall in love. Maybe love isn’t just a chemical reaction biologically programmed to initiate pair bonding. Maybe not.

Good work up there son. Keep it up.

It was only noon, so I drove to the beach and parked my mother’s Toyota. I got out and scanned around. The three kilometers of beach were completely deserted except for the seagulls, so I sat on the hood and relaxed in the sun. So this is life, not bad, not bad. Then, a mirage, I scouted a lone figure in the distance walking along the beach. It looked like a girl, moved like a girl… it was a girl! And a cute one! What luck. I always believed in playing the odds. It’s better to have two chances than one. I waited for her until she was passing by. I stared at her, locking eye contact, and she smiled… a pretty one.

“You could have brought some friends with you,” I said. “I was getting lonely on this big beach all by myself.”

She laughed. “You don’t need anyone. You can still have fun by yourself.”

“In theory. But hey, it looks like we have each other. Hi, I’m Sebastian.”

“Liz, “she said, moving in to accept my behind-the-back low five.

We chatted for several minutes. She was a bartender, twenty-three, from Toronto, and here for the summer. She liked wine and snowboarding. We agreed to meet later that night for a drink. It was really that easy. I didn’t have to insult her, or turn my back, or run any memorized script. I was chipper—her? Alone, horny, lonely, who knows? So it was on. I don’t consider myself incredibly good looking, or very lucky. I just know how to capitalize on opportunity where most men would defeat themselves in their mind before even trying, the poor fools—clipping their own wings.

Four o’clock rolled in so I picked up Carly, and drove her to the beach. She’s a bubbly and enthusiastic type. Her cheeks would glow a youthful pink when she smiled. She was training to be a fitness consultant and worked part time at a gym, when not serving lattes to tourists. It showed in her strong legs and lack of body fat.

I asked her to lie on the grass with me and point out the shapes and creatures in the clouds. No logic allowed. All that frustration and work so I could stare at clouds with pretty girls. Montreal was worth it, pickup was worth it, life is worth it.

“That one is an elephant,” she said, pointing up.

“That one is Hitler riding a Unicorn sliding down a rainbow,” I said.

“Oh my god! I see it too!”

After a few minutes of this, I turned my head to gaze romantically into her eyes, leaned in and kissed her. She was terrible at it, gnashing her teeth into mine, licking the roof of my mouth. It was as if she’d never kissed a man. I imagined what my pecker would look like going through that meat grinder. Grimace.

She had to go home, so I drove her and sat low in the seat so her parents wouldn’t call the police. I could see the headline, “Dirty pickup artist seduces eighteen year old barista who can’t kiss.”

Even though I felt like a bastard, I liked this girl. She didn’t seem immature at all, and she was gorgeous… a real knockout, like a heroine in a Hemingway novel. I could see myself staying with this girl. Maybe she would move to Vancouver with me.

After our date I drove her home and we agreed to meet again as soon as possible, because I’m freakin awesome.

Chapter 23

Part 2: Liz vs. Dianna

(The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting)

Liz showed up in her car at nine pm. My Sister peered through the window and said, “She’s pretty Sebastian! Where did you meet her?”

“She’s an old friend.”

“You haven’t lived here in ten years. She looks twenty years old.”

“Amazing isn’t it!” I replied, walking out the door, slightly embarrassed and proud at the same time. Is there a word for that? Hey guys, don’t care what anyone thinks of you, except your sisters.

Liz was wearing a tight pair of jeans and a black tank top that showed off her tiny waist and round hips. I hoped I’d get a better look at her that night, if I didn’t mess it up. My game plan was simple: Be cool, funny, aloof, and outcome independent. And drink.

We drove to the bar and went to the patio over-looking the nighttime beach line. I was surprised to find a dozen of her restaurant co-workers there, eating and drinking on the patio. I felt played because I thought we were on a date; now I would have to win over her friends too. I introduced myself but they mostly ignored me. All the guys were fit and good looking preppy types. I knew these sorts. Penticton is a hockey town and jock types are everywhere. They were natural, physical alpha males—big, but not too smart. I felt insecure again. Again, I don’t like being the new guy amongst old friends, not when I’m trying to hook up with a chick. I want to be the guy with the social value; I want to bring her into my world so I can work my magic.

Liz was ignoring me and flirting with a goateed line cook. I sat down beside her at the table.

“Hey, introduce me to your friends,” I said.

“Oh Mike, this is Sebastian.”

“Hey man. How’s it goin? How do you know her?” He asked.

“We met on the beach today.”

He looked at her, then at me, with his mouth open.

“No shit! You picked her up?”

“He didn’t pick me up!” She said, punching Mike in the arm, letting her hand linger on his bicep.

“Well Mike. A woman can’t be picked up because it’s actually her choice, we’re just friends.” I emphasized, “friends.”

The ducks quacked in the water.

“Well looks like we have a cockfight!” Liz said. “Don’t worry Mike… you’re winning.”

Mike scowled at her, “Hey relax.”

Enough of this. I excused myself to use the washroom and walked into the bar. If she’s going to play us off each other I’d find another date. I’m a professional dick wizard. I approached a few couples in the corner that were playing a game of pool. I played a round with one of the girls while her boyfriend stared at me hard, so I excused myself and moved on. Near the bar there was another pretty girl sitting by herself and a fat middle-aged dude in a track suit was leaning across the counter, almost on top of her. She wasn’t comfortable. I moved closer to hear them.

“You are soooo pretty. What’s your name?” he asked, waving his highball in her face.

“Ummm, why?”

“So I can buy you a drink, that’s why, hehe,” he said, his bulbous gut bouncing as he chuckled.

“Ummmm, I like, have a drink,” she said, obviously irritated.

“What’s your name babe?”

“Dianna.”

“Where are you from Dianna?”

“I live here.”

“Cool! So do I, hehe, hehe.”

My inner White Knight raised his long sword. Dianna was hot. I decided to save her from this creepy douche. I approached her from the front so she could see me coming. We made eye contact and I gave her an over-exaggerated wink before closing in.

“What’s up Babe? Sorry I’m late. You look fantastic. Who’s your friend?” I said, and then turned to look at the obese track star.

“Oh, I don’t know this guy,” she said, playing along.

“Hi. I’m Sebastian, her boyfriend.”

He looked at her, then at me. She smiled at him and nodded her little head. “Oh, sorry man. I didn’t know,” he said, bowing out.

“Hah. No worries champ. Well, have a good night!” I said, and patted him on the shoulder. He walked away in defeat. I sat down at Dianna’s table. “I want one thousand dollars in gold coins.”

“Haha. Thanks that was nice. What’s your name?”

“I’m Sebastian.”

“I’m Dianna.”

A busboy cleared our table. He looked Dianna up and down, then retreated.

“Are you waiting for someone? You’re asking for trouble sitting here alone.”

“No. I’m new in town,” she said. “I’m just getting out of the house.”

“You know what? I’m new in town too. I’m actually with some friends and have to go. But how about you and I get together Sunday, and we can be friendless losers together. We can go to the beach and run hand-in-hand skipping through the sand, and drinking cheap wine out of paper bags.”

She laughed, then sat back and regarded me with one closed eye. “Hmmm, yeah… ok! I don’t know about the cheap wine, but sure.”

“What’s your number?” I asked, taking out my phone.

I suppose playing the White Knight has it’s time and place. Most guys think that women are special angels and need to be rescued from every guy that hits on them, or undermines their purity, or whatever. Those are some of the worst cock-blockers. By this point, most of the women I flirted with enjoyed my affectations and White Knights usually end up coming off as needy instead of noble. But that’s because I put two-year’s worth of work in, and they didn’t. Women don’t need our rescuing—we need theirs.

I returned to Liz’s table. She was sitting alone and shot me an icy look. “Where have you been?”

“Well, I played a game of pool with those couples up there, and then I saved a girl from being raped.”

“You were gone a long time.”

“You’re not my dad.”

“What? Of course I’m not your dad. You’re so weird.”

My dick was soft like month old banana. I didn’t like this girl anymore. I still wanted to bang her though, because she looked so, so good. God damn biology, you can detest a woman but still want to give her a good ol hate-rail. “You like that woman? You like my dick in your butt!?” Funny thing is, it’s exactly the testy girls like this that enjoy that sort of thing. It’s like they have to screen for masculinity by being a total cow, because only a real jerk would put up with that shit. So the more you put them in their place, the hornier they get.

I looked back at Dianna but she was gone. The track suit guy was leaning over another young girl, souring her with his lonely breath.

“Hey you know what. I’m gonna bounce,” I said. “I have a big day tomorrow.”

“What? You’re going home?”

“Yeah. You’ll be fine. You have Mike.” I knew I was being a dick but didn’t care. It’s incredibly hard to keep up the “I don’t give a shit” shield indefinitely.

She scowled. “Mike left.”

“Give me a call if you want to hang out again,” I said, standing up.

I started to walk away and she yelled out, “Sebastian, I’ll give you a ride. Come on.”

I just looked at her for a few seconds until she stamped her foot and said, “Let’s go!”

So I let her give me a ride home. At this point I was sick of being played by women, used like an emotional jizz-tissue for their validations. A hot girl can get laid by an attractive guy literally whenever she wants. I could post a Facebook status picture of myself winning the Pulitzer Prize, get thirteen likes, and a pretty girl posts a picture of her duck face gets eighty-seven. Being pretty isn’t a talent.

When we pulled into my Mother’s driveway I said, “I have a tent in the backyard. I prefer to sleep outside.” I actually did prefer sleeping outside, it was quiet and the weather was nice. She frowned at me.

“Why would you sleep in a tent in your mom’s backyard? Is that so you can get laid back there?”

“Well… shit. Look, if you want to. Look I’ll just call you later.”

I got out of the car and looked back at her as she pulled out of the driveway. She waved and sped away in a leaving a torrent of dust. I went down to sleep in my tent. I totally failed that test. I could have been a little cocky and brought her back there, but honestly, she dissed me all night, so screw her. Why should I have to do this retarded tap dance all the time? Why do the women have the power? Why do I have to play games just to get laid? Why do I whine so much?

I wondered what Olivia was doing. I thought about sending her a text message. I looked at her number, typed in a few letters and put the phone down. I picked it back up and looked at a few of her pictures. Then I masturbated into a tissue and tried to fall asleep.

Through the transparent tent roof I saw a shooting star. Anyway I thought it was a star, but it didn’t leave a trail. Then I thought it was a ufo, but it wasn’t. It was a satellite. I was disappointed. I’d like to see a ufo just to give me hope that there’s something superior out there.

The next day I went for a run along the roads flanking the cherry orchards. I’d put on a few pounds from too much drinking and laying around reading books. I’d found it did matter that I had a chubby belly; the girls still liked me, but weren’t quite as adoring as when fit. It was time to step up and get that handled. I also needed to get my emotions in order. I was far too dependent on validation for my happiness. One day I had a girl kissing me on the beach, I’d be giddy like a box of tickled puppies. The next day I’d be rejected and sore.

In the afternoon I called Carly, the blond barista, and arranged a date for that evening. I liked this girl. She was gorgeous, smart, and charming. I went to a café and wrote poetry about lust and boredom. While I was sitting slurping my iced-Americano on the sunny patio, a very large, somewhat obese, neck-bearded man sat down beside me. I recognized him from high school.

“Hey bro. I remember you, it’s Wayne Koywan right?” I asked.

“Yeah. I remember you too. What’s your name?”

“Sebastian.”

“Yep. Do you still live in Penticton?”

“No I’m just here to visit my family. Do you?”

“Me, no. I’m just doing a show in town tonight.”

“Oh yeah, I heard you’re a slam poet right?” I asked.

“Yep,” He said, watching a young couple pass by, holding hands.

“Cool. What else do you do?”

“It’s all I do.”

I looked down at my own poetry, then back at him.

“No shit. So you tour and play shows?”

“Yep, and I sell books.”

“That’s… outstanding.”

Wayne was famous. He toured performing his slam poetry at festivals, opening for rock stars and international events. He even performed on tv at the beginning of the Vancouver Olympic ceremonies. His rhymes were heartfelt and funny. I let him look at some of my poetry.

“It’s good. You should get on the mic and read it tonight,” he said.

“What? No way dude. It’s not that good.”

“No, it is. You’ll never learn until you try,” he said.

He told me he was writing a book about how he was bullied as a child, which was inspiring. I’d thought about being a professional writer. I told him that I used to write for magazines.

“Why did you stop?” he asked.

I told him I didn’t know, but the truth was, I was scared. It was hard work and I didn’t think I was good enough. Though lately I’d been brainstorming ways to make money by writing, because I was afraid of being a wage slave, working a job I hated, and fading into oblivion. The conversation eventually went to women, always to women. I asked him how he managed to meet them.

“I drink,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, regarding his answer. “You don’t need alcohol for confidence,” I told him, preparing for a lecture on game theory.

“I drink so I can reject them,” he said flatly.

“Oh… wow,” I laughed. “So you live like a rock star? Chicks all over the place. Groupies, and all that?”

I’d always fantasized about being famous, or powerful. Wayne was the most famous guy I knew. Maybe he had some insight I could adapt into my game.

“Nah,” he said. “I used to have a port in every harbor. Now I just prefer one girl. but I travel all the time.”

He looked at an old man crossing the street and half smiled. “Love man—love is what you need. Love will fuel your art, not that other stuff. That’s an illusion.”

“Word.”

He had to leave for his show. I thought about what he’d said about love. The puas’ don’t believe in it. They say it’s just a biological function. That made sense, but then, what was art? A biological function to… make stuff? To create bigger buildings with superior form? To make things for humans to look at so that we don’t get depressed and shoot ourselves full of cocaine and die in our work vans? Was what I was doing, learning how to pick up girls, art? What’s the point of doing all this if the only status I could achieve would be fathering illegitimate children? I needed to work this out. I wondered what it would be like to be a respected artist, being paid to do what you would do for free, having girls throw themselves at you, and magazines wanting to interview you.

I’d heard that fame is a double edged sword. Many an insecure author had drank and doped themselves to death at the fists of fame. Here was a guy doing something deep, while I pursued women for the sake of validation. Maybe all art is porn. I decided when I was done with this pua crap I’d return to being an artist. I finished my poem. A pretty girl stood at the intersection waiting to cross into the book store. I gathered my things and started walking that way.

Chapter 24

Blowjobs and Validation (The wonder years)

“Hey, I need to buy some swim trunks,” I told Carly. “Let’s go to Walmart.”

I took her to the home décor department and threw her onto the bed. Then I got on and started jumping on it. I was going to give her the best date of her life, without spending a dollar.

“Look honey, this is perfect for our mansion!” I said, holding a duck-head toilet scrub.

“Of course daaarling,” she said, playing along.

We went to the toy department and I chased her around, firing Nerf darts at her bum. Then we went to the clothing department and I put on a giant Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt and pretended to be retarded.

“Carly I like yur hair, it’s real purty n smells like baby dinosaur farts.”

This made me laugh but sort of weirded her out, so I dropped it.

I liked Carly. She was very feminine and just slightly submissive. She never gave me any feminist crap when I said things like, “Bitch, shut up and kiss me!” If I can call a girl a filthy slut and she laughs, she’s a keeper.

We drove up to the local lookout spot, got out and cooed over the sparkling city. I sat her on a bench and we started kissing. She let me feel her little boobs. I liked that she was acting confident, but I knew she was a newb at all this. It was romantic, with the city lights and crickets and all, so I put her hand on my dick. She played with it through my pants but wasn’t taking initiative, so I stood up and pulled it out for her. She tried to give me a hand-job but just tugged on it like she was trying to plunge a toilet.

“Ouch! No, no. You gotta work the outside, don’t squeeze so hard. Have you done this before?”

“Yeah. I know how,” she said. Her face was very red in contrast to her very blond hair and freckles.

She tried again more gently this time and was getting it right.

“That’s nice, but it’s too dry,” I said. She stared at it for a moment as if deciding, then put one hand on and swallowed it. I felt like howling at the moon. It’s a fantastic sensation whenever you enter a woman’s mouth. It’s like you just slaughtered an immortal, or landed on the moon, or conquered a small country. She was horrible at it. After a few minutes I stopped her. Then we looked out from the mountain, over the hills and beaches and we cuddled. Was this joy, or part of the eternal recurrence, a repetition of the inevitable? How terrible would the end of this story be?

I drove her home and her mother was in the window. “What would she think about you dating a thirty year old man?” I asked.

“Oh, she doesn’t care. She married my dad when she was nineteen. He was thirty-four.”

“Where is he now?”

“They divorced when I was ten.”

“Oh.”

I kissed her goodbye and drove home through the winding hills past cherry, grape, apple and pear orchards. I think I saw two deer fucking, their eyes startled and glowing from my headlights. I drank a glass of wine and passed out on my mother’s couch, satisfied that I was leading an interesting life full of adventure and romance.

That night I had a dream. There was a dragon all blue and red and smoking, one of those Asian types, with a pair of red lips and enormous dragon breasts. It chased me through an all-pink night club. There were only women in the club and they cheered and spit at me, as I sprinted for my life. I woke up startled to G.W. Bush giving a speech on the tv to a cheering crowd, something about bombs, and unity. I turned it off and went to my tent.

Chapter 25

Number Three (You’re only as old as you lie)

I met Dianna at seven p.m., at the beach. The sun was still high. She was wearing a blue dress that showed off her legs and boobs, which were substantially awesome. We bought some fruit coolers and found a spot on the grass near the water. She was studying to be a massage therapist, so I got her to rub my shoulders. “Oh yeah, Jesus, oh lord, right there girl, that’s right, ouch! Shit! Who taught you that one? Don’t do that again. Go back to how you did it before dammit. Yeeesssssss, aaawwww yyeeeaaah like that! Damn. Don’t do what you did before, fire your teacher, keep doing this. Follow your instincts Dianna.”

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Me? Guess.”

“Twenty-three?”

“That’s a good guess!” I said.

“You’re twenty-three?”

“No. It’s just a good guess.”

“How old are you really?”

“I’m thirty.”

“Oh my god, you’re ten years older than me?” She said, leaning back.

I’d come to expect this from girls. Some don’t care, others make a big deal. It’s all the same to me. But I still prefer not to lie.

“Look. I don’t need to hear about your problems,” I said.

“Ha ha. No, you’re way too old for me but, you look so young!”

“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”

“But,” she regarded me, “I shouldn’t date a guy your age. You’re old!”

“Don’t be racist.”

“What!? That’s not racist.”

I pulled her down, onto the grass, leaned in and tried and kiss her but she turned her cheek. I expected that. They always seem to do that the first time. It’s like they need to consider it for a few minutes.

“No seriously. I like you but we’re not hooking up. You’re thirty!”

“I don’t call you names,” I replied.

This went on for a few more minutes. I had a hard time keeping my cool. Why does one young girl not care and the other makes a big deal out of it? What’s the difference? We’re all going to get old, we’re all worm food, we’re all just waiting for the next Chernobyl, tsunami, or plague. The way I see it, at twenty you’re old enough to join the army and clear land mines. It’s not like I was sixty. My skin’s not droopy. Just because I’m into Transformers and she’s into Pokemon.

“Don’t you love the way the sky looks when the sun is dipping just below the horizon?” I said, again changing the subject. “It just makes you want to, I dunno, make out!” I leaned in to kiss her again, and this time she almost let me. I dropped a few on her lips and poked my tongue out, but I was denied entry. It just pressed up on her lips. I didn’t like where this was going. I’m not used to it. I finished my cooler, tossed it onto the grass and opened two more. “Hurry up and drink,” I told her.

“What are you trying to get me drunk so I’ll make out with you?” she asked suspiciously.

“You look thirsty,” I said.

I wanted her to get a little drunk, loosen the little moron up. Why do women do this? Why can’t they just relax? Do I need to meet her parents before she’ll spread her thighs? I was starting to miss the loose French culture. I took out my camera and snapped few pictures of us. She cuddled in and smiled. Pretty girls can’t resist a camera…vanity. If she wouldn’t sleep with me at least I’d have her picture to wank to.

This dance carried on for another half an hour. I tried again and again, with a masked aloofness. I invited her to my place but she had to get home, “Early day tomorrow, blah, blah, blah.”

She told me again that I’m too old. I wanted to tell her yesterday that I was getting blown on a hilltop by a girl younger, prettier, and smarter than her. I wanted to explain that I didn’t experience younger women when I was a young man and now I’m making up for lost time, but I didn’t. Instead I said goodbye, drove home, hugged my mom, and my sisters, watched an episode of Lost, wrote a poem, did some sit-ups, climbed in my tent and jerked off again.

Chapter 26

It Hurts (Soul crushing)

Two down, one to go: It would have to be Carly, that pretty sunflower. I’d been in Penticton for three days, and in that time I had three dates. Not bad! In high school, I think I had three dates in three years. But even still, with all my experience and all those hours spent practicing pickup, I was being rejected. I was realizing that the pickup gurus were liars. Nobody is able to seduce supermodels with one hundred percent success. You can never attract every woman. And why would you want to? Where’s the fun in that? Maybe I should keep Carly, I thought. She was sweet, fit, smart, and beautiful. But I couldn’t stay in Penticton. There was nothing for me there. I would be bored. I needed to get back to Vancouver; to parties, music, art, culture, and city girls. I was just getting the hang of this pickup thing, and wanted to learn more. Maybe I was addicted? I couldn’t be a sex addict because I didn’t get laid that much. So I told myself I was addicted to growth.

I had a nagging fear though: In Montreal, I’d been prostituting in call centers… it was awful. Working those places was like smashing your nuts with stale baguette. You need to eat it to stay alive, but do you have to? I had first world problems. I didn’t care for installing stereos again, or working in gas stations, or warehouses, or any of the meaningless dead ends I’d subjugated myself to in my twenties. I remembered pulling graveyard shifts in gas stations, reading every magazine on the rack, drinking free slurpies, chugging shit coffee to stay awake, and then skateboarding home at nine a.m. The looks on the commuter’s faces as they went to their jobs—like a zombie movie. The terror of our entrapments; in the immortal words of Radiohead, “We do it to ourselves, we do.”

Angst is a luxury of the western world. If I wanted a real future, not wage slavery, I’d have to focus on a skill and develop it. I’d been considering teaching pickup. I’d taught a few of my friends, but I’d never been crazy about nightclubs and would rather be remembered as an explorer, a thinker or an artist; not a man-whore. But I’d learned a lot about leadership, belief, freedom from outcome through taking action, and was somewhat of an expert in self-development. Most people read self-help books, but never apply the information. I’d been applying it daily for two years.

I picked Carly up and brought her to my mother’s place. I had nowhere else to take her. I lead her out back to show her the tent, so she’d be comfortable staying there later. “It’s really quiet at night. You can see the stars!” I told her.

“Doesn’t it get cold?” she asked, skeptical.

“No, I have a really warm sleeping bag and we can cuddle.” I said, hoping I wasn’t pushing my luck with the cuddle comment.

Carly met my mom and my sisters, and I could tell they liked her. I wouldn’t normally bring a girl to meet my family unless we were dating for like, a year. But what choice did I have? Anyway, I never felt that I was doing anything wrong. I think all men should try to be with as many women as they can. How can you know what love is, what connection is, if you’ve only been with one, two, or three girls?

By this point, I’d been with over thirty and still hadn’t found love, if it even existed. Maybe I had to choose love and allow weakness; I would keep looking, and I didn’t care what anyone, even my family, thought about that. Now I look back, and I think that if I never sleep with another woman, I would be ok with that. I’ve had plenty of fun.

We went to the tent so we could drink coolers. She made me watch a crappy chick flick called The Notebook. “It’s really good!” she told me.

I could tell she was in love with Ryan Gosling. I thought the movie was sentimental drivel, but it got her into a positive mood. We kissed and I took off her clothes. She had a great body, her long blond hair and soft skin was exciting. I was finally going to bang this girl, I couldn’t believe it. I put on a rubber, laid her on her back and tried to get in there. I poked, and prodded and poked, but it just wouldn’t go in. I went into my backpack and found a little packet of lube. I applied it and tried again. I finally got the tip in. She was really tight. Slowly I pushed forward. Carly grimaced.

“Are you ok?” I asked her.

“Yeah. It’s ok,” she said through clenched teeth.

I pushed again, but couldn’t get more than the tip in. I rubbed in and out, in and out, until finally she relaxed. I’d been taking it easy on her until I figured I’d just go for it and let her deal with the consequences. With a final thrust, I was in. Oh triumph and joy, what a victory, I thought. There’s something grand about getting inside a new, beautiful woman. I wanted to grab my spear and go hunting.

I started moving at a faster pace, and buried my face into her blond hair—it smelled like coconut. Then I noticed she wasn’t making excited noises of pleasure, quite the contrary. I leaned back to look at her face and she was wearing a full mask of pain, like she was trapped in a torture chamber or something. I pulled out to look at my dick, but there was no blood.

“Are you a virgin?” I asked.

“No…” she replied, without looking at me.

“Damn it looks like I’m hurting you. What gives? I want this to be fun for both of us.”

“It is, ok. Keep going. I’m ok.”

“Ok,” I said.

I pumped away in a few different positions until I finished. It was the worst lay of my life. She was in pain the entire time. I realized that, for me, sex was all about the woman’s pleasure. I really get off on women when they freak out sexually, make lots of noise and really enjoy it. After we got dressed, I asked her to sleep over, but she had to work early so I drove her home. On the way she was very quiet.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah I’m ok.”

“Did it hurt?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I’m ok,” she said, looking out the window.

I dropped her off and she got out without a hug or goodbye kiss. “Wanna hang out tomorrow?” I asked.

“Ok.”

“What time?”

“Whenever. I get off work at three.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

I watched her apple bum go through the front door. I felt the glow. I had a new potential girlfriend. The dry streak was over, and I’d captured a keeper. Hot, smart, young. I drove home and spent the night smoking pot, writing aphorisms and counting satellites. No masturbation.

You’re the king. They’ll sing songs about you one day.

The next day I woke up early, ran, sipped an Americano and chewed a bagel with cream cheese. Then I wrote an article, with the most-intimate details of my mighty seduction, and posted it on the forums. The nerds and gurus alike cheered with glee and toasted my success. I was a living legend—to about thirty-eight-hundred strangers. My pen name was Zardoz, after the sci-fi classic starring Sean Connery. He’s a savage from a barren land who infiltrates a giant, flying stone head, for whom his people murder for, and worship as God. Connery discovers to his horror that all of his life, he has been controlled by a society of masculinized, psychic women and bi-sexual men. Named The Vortex, encased in a force-field, it houses all the art and knowledge of humanity. He raises a violent ruckus and accidental sexual revolution. It’s the shit. I wish I was Connery, or at least one of his chest hairs—a silent witness to his majesty.

Later that afternoon, I texted her to confirm our date, but she didn’t reply, so I called her a few hours later and got the same. I waited another four hours and texted again:

“Hey, are we hanging out or what?”

Still, no reply. Nothing is more infuriating as when someone doesn’t reply. I hate it. It’s just plain rude. Future girlfriends, should you discover this debaucherous tome, realize that for every unanswered text one kitten will be pinched, hard.

At four p.m. I went for a drive down the beach, and there she was, strolling languidly with a girlfriend. I was pissed but also relieved she wasn’t with a guy. I parked for interception, and sat on a bench until she arrived. She stopped and sort of smiled.

“How are you?” I asked, politely.

“I’m doing good, you?” she said, also politely.

“I didn’t hear from you. I thought we were hanging out.”

She smiled, then looked at her friend, then back at me. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Well, I also had plans with my friend.”

“We’re not friends?”

She smiled politely. “Sorry, we gotta go. See you around Sebastian!” She said with uncommon formality, and that was that. Bitch-Tits redux.

She walked away, and I sat there on that bench, a confused glob of beta-male. Was I cursed by ancient evil? Now this? Every woman I bang ends in disappointment and humiliation? What does a guy have to do? Love is a farce. Life is pain.

I texted her a few more times with messages like:

“I’m ready to continue our journey into the epic.”

But she didn’t reply. I figured it all went to crap when I penetrated her. Maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe she felt raped. I definitely didn’t rape her. I would never do anything to a girl like that. Not like that. Not unless she wanted me to in a Fifty Shades of Grey type of way. Women are brilliant and wonderful. I adore them and appreciate everything they’ve taught me about myself. But when they drop me like monkey shit I resent them—and the small hatred grows. But I get it. I’ve dropped plenty for the smallest infraction—and justification is the eldest of egoic children. I vowed do devote myself further to pickup and self-development. I was learning how to attract girls, but not how to keep them. The pattern was obvious. Empirical data does not lie. A beautiful young woman is blessed with sexual choice. I’m only blessed with my brain and ambition.

My mom and sisters asked what happened to Carly. I didn’t know. They were disappointed. Maybe they hoped I’d get a girlfriend and stay in Penticton. My sister said I would have a new one by the end of the week. But it’s just not that easy. I’d cashed my lucky charms. At least I got laid, sort of. It’s far worse to be flaked on before you get the pussy. For a woman, her pussy is her Pikachu, her power source. Once she gives it up, she must resort to tears and jealousy to manipulate us. And I get it, we go inside you. That’s pretty weird. Pussies are weird, like, pink little alien pleasure tacos. And we want nothing more than to crawl inside, drill away and take a lovely, bearish nap on your heart. True story.

To save money, and for kicks, I decided to hitchhike back to Vancouver. I’m lucky that a cool girl picked me up and not a cannibalistic man-rapist. She was going straight to the coast. She and her husband ran a boating adventure company at a lakeside resort. They had a tough first year, but now things were going very well and cash was flowing nicely. They just bought a new house and even though they had some hard times, were still very much in love. I told her I was a dating coach and planned to write a book about my sexual adventures. She thought it was the coolest job she’d ever heard of. I thought hers was better.

She didn’t vocalize her judgment when I told her I hit on over a thousand girls. “Oh my god that’s hilarious,” she said. We smoked weed and I watched the mountains pass and the landscape morphed from desert to lush west coast rainforest. I ate a banana muffin, some beef jerky, and fell asleep.

I awoke in Vancouver and peeled my face off the passenger window. I wiped off the grease stain, hugged and gave my see-you-laters. I stepped out into a gas station parking lot, and I was in Vancouver again. It felt like returning to an ex-girlfriend you thought you missed, until you got back together and found the same old issues. She was still pretty though.

Chapter 27

Vancouver (Same same, but different)

It had been two years since I got my surgery, one and a half years since I moved to Montreal, and now I was back; more experienced, confident, and sexed. I moved around and crashed on various couches. One of my old friends, Dylan, let me stay with him for several days. I made him watch pickup videos with me. He found it interesting but thought it was a little creepy.

“No dude!” I told him. “It’s only creepy if you think it’s creepy.”

One day over beers he told me he preferred the old Sebastian. It hurt. I had a feeling that when I got back I wouldn’t be able to relate to my old friends. I was right. The guys I met still seemed the same: lost, broke, sad. I loved them but I was just getting started. I wanted to see the world, date hotter girls, do something impressive, get rich. Not smoke weed and go to rock shows where everyone stands around pretending they’re apathetic. I like live music too. I used to be part of that scene. But now it seemed boring and the girls were ugly compared to the ones I’d been dating. Luckily Dylan and I found middle ground at karaoke bars.

One night we went to a local pub, and were looking over the song list when a big girl passed Dylan a note reading, “Hey. My friend the brunette girl thinks you’re cute.” Dylan handed it to me.

“Bro,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We walked to their couch and his girl was all smiles. Dylan is sort of shy, even though he’s tall, tattooed and handsome. He’s got that sad artistic thing going. He’s like my brother. I’d lived with him for three years before I left for Montreal, and we’d been through a lot together. Even though he didn’t approve of my obsession with picking up women, there we were doing it together. I did the talking.

“We’re here to bring the karaoke party. I’m Sebastian. This is Dylan.”

There were three girls; a dirty blond, elfish, bad fashion sense, and cute enough, a sexy brunette and a very pretty but terribly thick, (I mean obese,) girl. They were all in their late twenties and very open to us. The big girl shoved over to make space, cutting me from access to the blond. I squeezed into the tiny space beside her.

“Are you a karaoke fan?” the big girl asked.

“Of course. I’m a rock star. Are you?”

“Totally. I’m waiting for my turn. I’m going to do Spice Girls. What are you going to sing?” she asked.

The blond was smiling at me from the other side of the couch.

“I’ve got something in store. Don’t you worry. Hey, what are your names? I’m Sebastian.”

“I’m Tina and this is Regan” she said, pointing at the blond.

I reached over and shook Regan’s hand first.

Tina was very, very interested in me. She was aggressive like big girls tend to be. She played the twenty question game, “Where are you from? What do you do? How old are you?” Then she would laugh at my answers and squeeze my arms. Every minute or so I would look across her vast expanse at Regan, and she would be looking back. I could tell by the eye contact that she was interested in me. But when I tried to talk to her, Tina would shift her mass in between us, blocking my view, and ask me questions like, “Have you seen the new Harry Potter!?”

Fat girls are often very aggressive gamers; they need to be to compete with the thin girls. “Hey do you want a drink?” Tina asked. I did, and she was off to the bar to get me one. I remembered the quote by Quagmire from Family Guy: “Fat girls need love too, but they gotta pay.”

Tina wanted to get me drunk. A sound strategy, but now I was alone with Regan. I only had a couple of minutes to work it.

“Are you a karaoke superstar?” I asked her.

“A superstar? Ummm. Yes I am!”

“Do you girls come here every week?”

“This is our second time. Do you?”

“It’s my first. But I love karaoke.”

“What do you do?” She asked.

“I’m an unemployed writer. I just got home from a trip to Montreal.”

“I loooove Montreal. It’s so fun,” she said, reaching out and touching my hand to prove her enthusiasm. If a girl touches you with certain energy, it’s a green light. If you don’t move forward you lose momentum and game over.

“Yeah, it’s the best,” I continued. “Where are your favorite…”and then there was a great compression as Tina dropped her two hundred pound frame in between us, and we were separated like Moses split the sea. Tina handed me a drink. I took a sip and almost coughed. “Is this a double?”

“It sure is!” Tina said.

We talked while Dylan sang Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash. I didn’t mind Tina. She had some charm. I was thinking she was even sort of sexy and caught myself looking at her massive breasts when she wasn’t looking. I like big boobs, but these weren’t real big boobs, these were fat boobs. They don’t feel the same as big boobs, they’re all soft and doughy. Still, I was considering her until she tilted her head back and polished off a half pint in one swallow, followed by a putrid, Homer Simpsonesque belch. Genetics my ass.

Finally, Tina got up to sing her ballad. When she did I slid over beside Regan. This time I wouldn’t let Tina separate us. Regan was a funny girl. She’s a playwright and actress with a good sense of humor. She even let me practice my stupid palm reading routines on her.

“You’re going to meet a guy that sings really, really well. You will want to make love to him all the time, but he makes you buy him expensive dinners first and that becomes costly.”

Tina returned from her song and tried to shove herself between us. Not cool.

“Hey,” I said. “We were having a conversation.”

Tina pouted. “Well we were having one too, before my song came on.”

“Yeah I know. But I’m not here for only you lady. I gotta share the love,” I told her firmly.

Tina pouted again, and then went to the bathroom. Harnessing my alcohol-fueled courage, I stretched my arm around Regan’s shoulder. She snuggled into me like a girlfriend would, totally natural. Nothing would keep us apart this time, not even a two hundred pound drunk sexpot in full ovulation.

“I won’t let her destroy our love,” I said.

I didn’t want tension. I looked at Dylan and he was playing with his girl. Two of us, three of them. Something had to give… something big. Tina returned from the toilet and captured us cuddling; her face fell south. She plopped down beside us and pouted up at the karaoke screen.

“You two are going to have sex tonight,” Tina said.

I just looked at her and smiled, sorry-like. I understand Tina! I’ve been you soo many times, and it feels soo good not to be you! I’m a bad man, a fantastic and horrible person. If your friend wasn’t prettier and thinner and equally receptive, I might have been down. But that’s how men work. That is real. This great matrix, it’s a battlefield littered with carcasses, brothers killing brothers, vultures circling the triumphant victors, licking their chops and squawking their complaints.

Then she stood up and with one long gulp, polished off her pint and walked nobly out the front door.

“Is your friend alright?” I asked, pretending to care, but before Regan could answer I heard, “Next up, Sebastian with… Love Shack!”

I leapt up and grabbed the mic with narcissistic, victory-fueled energy, “I got me a car, it seats about twenty! So hurry up and grab your juke box moneey!” The girls formed chorus group singing, “The looove shack, is a little old place where weeee can get together!” They even did a little dance. It was cute.

They agreed to come back to Dylan’s to watch, “cartoons,”—and by cartoons we meant, “Sex.” It’s good to have some random reason rather than, “Wanna bang? Hehe, hehe, yeah…” It can’t be their fault. They’re not sluts! It just sort of happened?

On arrival, Dylan pulled his girl to his room and Regan and I had the couch. We yak-yakked for about thirty comforting seconds before kissing. A few minutes later we heard a quiet, whimpered moaning, followed by a, ‘squeaka, squeaka, squeaka,’ from Dylan’s room. It was really hot to hear someone else, and made us hornier. I put my hand under her skirt to play with her pussy and she undid my zipper.

“Oooooooaahhhhhh!!! Ahhhhh! Yes, fuck, mmm, yes!” Rolled through thin walls of Dylan’s room.

“Wow,” she said.

‘Squeaka, squeaka, squeaka…’

“Go for it bro.”

One of my greatest frights, other than Thai police caning, Nazi zombies and transsexual drunk drivers are std’s. I’ve managed to stay clean so far by avoiding raw-dawging.

“I don’t have a rubber,” I told her.

“Ohh.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

I still have fingers! So I used them. I entered her and she stroked me back. We met in a chorus of unified hand-love. We stared into each other’s eyes while we did it. Sometimes not having sex is good too. I think she pretended to come. It was great fun anyway and we spooned ourselves to sleep, laying in a little pool of joy and guilt.

In the morning, Dylan cooked us eggs and pancakes then he drove the girls home. We all exchanged high-fives like sixteen year olds, and I left him that morning to look for an apartment and job. It was going to be a good summer, or so I predicted. Nostradamus I am not.

A spent a few days hanging out with old friends. I went to the beach to lie on the sand, gaze at boobies and work on my poetry book. I used to dread the beach—where people might stare at my funny chest. Now I loved to swim again. I even practiced approaching girls at the beach. It was much easier than clubs or bars—at least for phone numbers.

The next morning I was taking a leak and noticed a funny bump at the base of my cock. I inspected it closer with a hand mirror and saw another one… and another one. “Fuck me, no, no, no!” I yelped.

Dude! You bastard! Nein, nein, nein!

What was it? Herpes? HPV? I counted five bumps in total. I bussed to the local clinic and the doctor swabbed my wiener, then he left me in the room to sweat it out. What could it be? I didn’t even bang that girl. Is this what I get for being a promiscuous man slut? I suppose I deserve it for making all those girls cry. But shit, they’ve made me cry plenty of times. What about all the ones that wouldn’t call me back, or mocked me? I’m not a bad guy. Why me? Am I going to have to cut my nuts off? Will I need to tell every girl I ever sleep with that I’m a disease carrier?

The doctor came back after twenty long minutes. He stared at his clip board, then at me, then at the clip board again, put his gum in the garbage, adjusted his collar and said, “Well Mr. Newton, it’s a wart cluster called Molluscum Contagiosum.”

Mini-terror deep down in my guilty gut. This is what I get. This is what I receive for trying reaching beyond my station. I don’t deserve pretty girls. I’ll just get a normal job, like construction work, or the postal office, and I’ll save up for a few years and go to Tibet and live a sexless existence with monks on a mountain, where no women and their pretty feet and shoulders and eyes are. The doctor gave me a soft smile. “It’s a common std,” he said. “Small children often contract this on their legs and arms but for some reason it is spreading through sexual contact. It’s not permanent, and with proper treatment can be healed completely in six to twelve weeks. The virus will not stay in your system.”

Not… permanent. I heard the magic words, the soft whisper of a genius doctor. I figured it must be days like this that keep him going, all fulfilled like, when he informs a frightened man that he will indeed retain use of his penis. Then the horrible second part—six to twelve weeks. I repeated it silently to understand its significance, “Six to twelve weeks?”

“Yes. I’ll give you some antibiotics,” he said, scribbling on his notepad.

“Not permanent?” I asked. “I heard HPV stays in you forever. So does Herpes.”

“No,” he continued. “This is not Herpes or HPV. It will not linger in your system.”

I walked outside the clinic and called Regan to tell her about the Molluscum. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” She said. “I had a one night stand on New Year’s Eve, but I had it treated. The doctor told me it was gone. I’m sorry!” She was crying.

“Yeah, it’s not. I’ll talk to you later, ok? It’s fine.” I said goodbye and hung up.

As I walked home I thought about my dick. My poor, poor dick. He was done for the summer! I felt like a Jedi that had his light saber confiscated. All I did was finger her. Six to twelve weeks!? I spent the last two years studying pickup and now I’m shelved. Karma? I didn’t do anything evil. Did I? If I met a girl that was girlfriend material, I would stick with her. She just has to be beautiful, interesting, feminine, fit, witty, funny and intelligent. Is that too much to ask?

Chapter 28

Rickard Yang (Interesting)

I would take a month to focus on other things, like getting a life. I would still go out and approach women, but I couldn’t infect some poor girl with warts of despair. I needed to find a job and a place to live. I wasn’t a kid anymore; I needed a calling, a purpose. Otherwise I would be another random man speeding towards obscurity and regret. I used to write for money so I decided to keep dabbling in that. I also worked as an extra in the movie industry, which was a great way to meet girls, but the work was random, the pay sucked, and sitting around eating craft services made me fat. One of my friends offered to hook me up with a restaurant job, bussing tables. I was hesitant at first. I felt too old to be bussing tables. I could go back to installing stereo systems, but it bored me. I found no satisfaction in that job. At least in the restaurant industry I could meet girls. I wouldn’t need to crawl through attics or sweat it out at construction sites full of angry men.

I ended up getting hired as a busboy at a local brew pub. The job was easy enough for the mentally challenged, but you needed to be fast and available, clearing tables so that new customers could sit down to drop their money on fatty foods. There were some hot girls, but I wasn’t able to attract any of the ones I wanted. I was a lowly busboy, the town bitch. The managers were all underpaid alcoholics and the cooks hated themselves. Most of the servers were alright to hang out with after work, but on the job they were demanding and arrogant. Still, I liked it better than other jobs I’d done. The pay sucked but it was enough to cover rent and beer.

I’d been posting lots on forums, so my fan base was growing. It was a fun hobby, but by this point I was beginning to see pickup as nothing more than confidence, Right Action, and luck. My interest was waning. Most of the forums members were nerds. They preferred to fight and troll and contradict each other. So much energy spent on vagina, so little on spiritual development. Too much discussing and analyzing tactics instead of going out. The only thing a newbie needs to do is practice until they master the fundamentals: body language, fashion, grooming, vocal-tonality, verbal-improvisation, eye-contact, sexual-escalation and ego.

I suppose that’s a long list, but if you practice it will come together through experience-based epiphanies. I made some great friends from the lairs, but at this point forums were a waste of energy. I started my own blog, because I’m a raging narcissist with delusions of grandeur.

I sent an email to a Vancouver based dating-coaching company. I was good enough to teach. I didn’t feel like a guru, or some master pua, I just wanted a try anything to escape the kitchen. A writer friend once said to me, “My dad told me, son, you can work with your hands, your mouth, or your brain. You know which is best.”

Soon after I was contacted by a guy named Rickard Yang. He owned a company called Dating Done Right, and was hiring junior coaches. Was I really going to teach pickup? What would I tell my mother? Did this mean I’d have to wear a suit and hang out in swanky clubs? I’d done alright, but I’d never dated a stripper or supermodel (like they imply you’re supposed to). I thought Rickard would transform me into a coach.

I had no idea.

We met for coffee. A respectably dressed Chinese guy in his early thirties, he was calm and well spoken. I couldn’t help self-hypnotizing on his bamboo nose-hair, coke-digger fingernails, and cragged, arid lips—his game must be so tight it doesn’t matter, I thought. A true master. He inquired whether I utilized pickup routines or natural game. “I usually just wing it,” I told him. “I’m into being present, and that’s difficult when you’re focused on future outcomes.”

“Hmmm,” he said, stroking his chin fuzz, “interesting.”

I was to join the junior coaches for lunch the following afternoon. “It would be great to meet other guys at or beyond my level,” I rejoiced, shaking his hand. Maybe this was the Punani Jedi counsel? I left with a renewed sense of purpose and self-esteem. If you ask the universe for a solution, it delivers. Oprah and all those dead smart people were right.

The next afternoon, we congregated at Starbucks where Rickard introduced me to the junior coaches. I liked all of them; they seemed cool; not like the lair trolls. These guys put in the work, or were already stable. Rickard went over his coaching method, which was basically a copy of The Mystery Method minus the memorized routines. Rickard claimed to teach natural game. By this point, all pickup material seemed the same. It really didn’t matter what a student read if he didn’t apply it. At the end of the class he pulled me aside.

“Sebastian. I have a client I’d like you to work with.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll try you out.”

“Rickard, I’m just curious, what’s the pay?”

“Well, a boot camp is twenty-five hundred dollars, so you can work that off at twenty-five an hour while you’re training.”

I agreed. It sounded like a fine deal; he would teach me how to coach and in the end I’d get a job. But he’d never even seen me teach, or hit on girls. I would never let someone coach my students if I hadn’t personally trained them. I figured, or deluded myself, that he was a guru: an expert judge of character. But my spidey sense whispered: Or maybe he doesn’t give a shit about his clients and just wants to squeeze a quick buck out of them.

Shut up Spiderman!

I caught the bus to the new job… I had tables to clear.

Chapter 29

The Pua (Sometimes winners quit)

“See that blond one over there, eating sushi in the food court?” I said, pointing.

“Yeah, oh man, okay,” a not-so handsome twenty-year-old said. “What opener should I use?”

“Search the environment, use improvisational creativity. What’s the most natural thing to talk about in a food court?”

“Ummmmm, food?”

“Totally bro,” I said. “Ask her how much she likes her food, from one to ten, and then make fun of her answer. If she says, ‘ten,’ call her a high maintenance princess, if she says, ‘three,’ call her a manic depressive with daddy issues. Go with the path of least resistance. Just remember, stick to emotional topics, not logical ones. If she hooks, she’s friendly and receptive, tell her you have a few minutes to spare and sit down. If she’s into it, get the number. And remember to make kino, shake her hand at least.”

“What should I talk about?” he asked, fidgeting with his Blackberry.

“Dude,” I said, “put that down and look at me.”

He put it down.

“You paid too much money to waste your time pissing around. Don’t worry about it, ok? Stay in the moment. Just stay in set for two minutes and you’ll do fine. Two minutes! Pretend if you stay in for two minutes, you’ll win a million bucks. Fundamentals, ok!? Go, go, go! Two minutes!”

I gave him a little shove and off he went. He was talking to her, his hands were shaking, he was sweating: Normal newbie behavior. I was there once. She was smiling and flicking her fingers through her hair. I gave myself a little fist pump. He came back after five minutes with her number in hand.

“Good job dude,” I told him.

He was happy. We debriefed about the day’s work. After approaching thirteen girls he managed to collect three phone numbers and two Facebooks. Better than I did on my first day.

“Awesome Sebastian. Thanks man. I’m really happy you’re helping me. You’re an awesome coach!” he said with a spreading grin.

“Hey, it’s all you,” I assured him. And we went our separate ways. I left the mall and headed a few blocks down to Gastown, and my other work. The hostess smiled. I walked past the bartender and gave him a wave. I moved past the kitchen line and the food runner said, “Hi Sebastian, it’s gonna be fucking busy tonight. There’s like a hundred and twenty reservations.”

“Cool.”

I went into the locker room, yanked off my street clothes, mashed into my uniform and apron, punched the clock and journeyed through the dining area for my seven hours of nightly duty. Seven hours. Better than eight, I thought. Positive thinking kept prisoners alive in Auschwitz too.

“Sebastian!” a server yelled, using his sleeve to wipe bacon sweat from his face. “Where have you been? I need you to step it up…I’m getting run over.”

“I’m on it,” I said, rushing to his section.

As I was clearing the table another server approached me.

“Sebastian, I haven’t seen you in a while. I need all the water refilled in section A.”

“Yeah sure. I’m on it. Two minutes.”

The server scowled, fixed her apron and posture, faked a smile, and moved off. After I cleared both the sections I walked over to flirt with the hostess.

“So, do you come here often?”

“Haha. Shut up Sebastian.”

“You shut up. I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You love me.”

“You’re vain.”

Patelli, the manager of annoyance, yelled from across the bar, “Sebastian!”

I stopped flirting and looked at him. “Yes, boss?”

“Can you pick that up?” He pointed at a dish rag two feet from his polished shoes. The hostess remained silent, but watchful. Judgment Day. Cock fight of the slave-lord.

I paused for a second. Was he kidding? He couldn’t pick it up himself? This guy was just power tripping… cock-blocking. “Sure thing boss,” I said, languidly walking over one step at a time. I kept our eyes locked as I bent down to pick up the linen, then slowly raised myself, and with a toss to the left, dropped it in the bin. “Anything else, boss?”

“Yeah, can you go check your section,” he said without looking at me.

Some rulers utilize respect, strategy and nobility; others… fear and ridicule. They were never meant to lead, yet here they are, born into bureaucracy like reincarnated hyenas.

“No problem,” I said, and went to my section.

What a douche. Why was I here? Who are these people? High school dropouts and wanna be actors. Nice people most of them, but how did this happen to us? Even Pol Pot was a moon-eyed kid once.

That evening I went to Patelli. “Hey Patelli, I was wondering. I’ve been working here for six months now. I’m thinking, what does a guy need to become a server? I mean, I’m in my thirties. I’m a smart guy, loyal, funny, and a hard worker. I’d like a bigger challenge.”

“Oh.” He took a long sip of his frappuchino. “You’ll never be promoted here.”

My jaw dropped.

“What!? Why not?”

“We don’t promote from within. You’d be better off going to Dennys, or a fast food restaurant where they’re uh, willing to train young guys.”

F.U.C.K U…

“I’m not that young. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to serve beer and burgers,” I said, scratching my face in frustration.

“Look. It’s just not worth it for us. Why train when we can hire someone that’s already trained?”

“I’m a fast learner. I used to be a music journalist,” I told him.

I wanted to tell him that every weekend I was teaching men how to overcome social-anxiety. We’d go to malls, bookstores, clubs, and bars—pushing them to approach random women—and it worked. I thought I might be a good server, but this job was a joke. I wasn’t sure I could be a full-time dating coach yet. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a dating coach—it’s such a weird job. How do you tell people you teach pickup for a living? They’d brand me a warlock and sharpen sticks at both ends. Rickard wasn’t paying me and I needed money. I was still on his, “training program.” Patelli wasn’t having it. I’d scorned him one time too many. He held tight his reins of power.

I did my time, collected my twenty-five dollars in tips and left for home, physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. I checked my messages. There was a text from Rickard Yang asking me to meet potential students at The Cellar. I showered, ate dinner, played battlefield two, read Charles Bukowski, meditated, got into my skinny jeans and V-neck, caught the bus and went to the bar. He was standing in the back talking to the group.

“This is Sebastian, my newest coach,” he said, patting my shoulder. “He knows a lot about game. Talk to him if you want any help.”

A few guys came to ask me questions. I leaned back like a killer whale amongst dolphins while orating them on approaching, escalation, limiting beliefs, and all that stuff I thought I understood. Ego, that sneaky devil, whispering little stories of grandeur.

You’re the shit bro…

I finally saw Rickard chat up a few women, they were polite. It’s not like he didn’t have game. I saw him make-out with a hottie once—in less than thirty seconds (though she politely refused his offer to leave with him before escaping his chaffy clutches).

Getting a fast make-out isn’t hard if you’re aggressive. You can basically kiss-rape a girl before her logic kicks in. Most dating coaches claim to be experts with women, though I’ve never met one that could be considered better than any other. You can be as attractive as you are, but never more so than you’re least attractive and best option. There’s no magic involved: the woman has the final say. The only thing a seducer can truly manipulate is emotion and perception, just like any good sales, politician, or con-man. Pickup works because the woman decides she wants to be picked up, not because your magic pua lines brainwashed her. If you’re not solid within yourself, more so than her, she’ll bounce. We teach men how to fake confidence until their positive experiences allow them to believe their own lies. So here’s the question…what is personality? What’s taste? What’s a belief system worth if you can toss it all away like a used condom and begin anew? You think you know yourself, but all you know is that you don’t know anything; especially not yourself. Now fly my monkeys, and bring me Dorothy!

I’d been working for him for two months now. I wouldn’t call it working, because he wasn’t paying me. He kept promising he would, once I worked off the money he figured I owed him, which was about two thousand dollars. He never actually taught me anything my own experiences hadn’t already.

As I was lecturing the students I spotted a super cute little blond. There was a Santa hat on the coat rack. I walked over, pushing through partiers, grabbed the hat and dropped it on her head.

“There you go. Now you look cool,” I said.

“Oh, why thank you sir! I always wanted to look cool,” she replied with a smile, completely receptive.

“Ok, give it back,” I said, and took it away.

“Aww! Hey! You meanie!”

“Here,” I said, holding my hand over her head, “you can wear the invisible hat. Now we both have one, except mine is better, because I’m awesomer.”

Sometimes talking to girls like you’re six years old works.

Her name was Summer, a twenty-two year old nursing student from Halifax. We were getting on well when another pretty one walked up, grabbed her hand and pulled. I reached out for my treasure and latched on to her forearm. “Hey!” I said. “Wait your turn, you love pirate!” I tried a karate chop, but she wouldn’t relent. Before Summer was dragged away, we vowed to rendezvous later. I went back to the students.

“Woa she’s hot,” one of them said.

“Yeah. I’ll try again later. Her friend is playing mother hen.”

I carried on with my game lessons.

“You can’t be worried about rejection. I mean, look at me and look at that guy,” I said, pointing to a tall, thick haired, toned young guy. “If I relied on my looks, I’d never pick up a girl. Unless you demonstrate superior game, the good looking guys will win. Why should a ten go with me over him?”

“Because you have game?” one guy said.

“Sure. Sometimes I do. But really, the only way for a guy that looks like me to get a beautiful girl, say a ten, is to play the numbers game. Status helps, but I’m not a promoter, DJ, or rock star. So to get a beautiful girl I have to hit on one hundred, where as that guy probably has to hit on thirty. But somewhere, there’s a girl that prefers this, to that.”

“That’s depressing man,” another guy said.

“No. That’s reality. If you don’t want to approach hundreds of women, just start a band. It doesn’t even matter if you suck. They just care that you’re on stage.”

“That’s pretty negative.”

“You’re not my mom.”

“What?” he said, scratching his head.

I saw Summer flirting with a young guy near the bar. He had his phone in his hand and was getting her number.

“See that guy?” I said to the students.

“Yeah,” they said, nodding.

“I’m giving him five minutes to do something, and then I’m stealing his girl.”

They all smiled.

“Really?” one asked.

“You bet.”

I felt like Babe Ruth, pointing outside the stadium, knockin it out for the crowd.

Five minutes passed and the guy was still chatting. Good for him, I thought. Now it’s my turn. I walked straight towards them, put up my hands out in a grand hugging gesture and said, “Summer! Oh my God! It’s been sooooo long!”

“Ohhh…heeey!” she replied. We hugged. The other guy sort of looked at us funny, not sure what to make of me.

“Hi bro. How’s it goin?” I said, giving him a handshake. “Have a good night.” I dismissed him.

And then he said, “Ok, thanks,” and sauntered off, defeated by superior game.

You get what you want. He wanted a phone number, I wanted her.

That was so awesome.

We were still hugging. “I’m not letting your friend drag you away this time. You tell her I’m a good guy, ok?”

“Oh she knows you’re a good guy. I told her you were.”

I caught that last bit: I told her you were. That meant they were talking about me. That meant I could get this girl. I looked at her lips, then at her eyes, then at her lips. She licked them, preparing. I leaned in slowly and she let out a little sigh and opened her mouth, but I didn’t kiss her—I just lingered, a millimeter away to keep the tension. The students were huddled at the bar, watching. I was in The Matrix.

“I think you love me,” I said. “I’m marrying you.” I leaned down, placed one hand beneath her legs, one behind her back and swooped her up. She squealed and wrapped her arms around my neck. I carried her up a few stairs singing, “Here comes the bride!” and dropped her onto a couch. I sat down, pulled her onto my lap, grabbed her face—real dominant like—and stared into her eyes for about five seconds, until she submitted… and then we kissed. It was epic.

Women need to trust you, so I built trust. It can’t be all Santa and Unicorns. It’s risky to leave the role-playing and come back to reality, because the girl might realize you’re not that interesting. She was from Halifax, visiting her parents for Christmas. She liked skiing and drinking. She had a fun and bubbly personality, small breasts, green eyes, a button nose and dimples. Probably the prettiest girl I’d caught up to that point. She looked like the sort of girl I would fantasize about in high school. I’d watch them from afar and wonder how I would ever get with a babe like that, and now here I was making out with one, like I did it every day. She would never know how hard I had to work for her.

“Look!” I said. “It’s snowing outside, so let’s go on an adventure. You’re not crazy are you?”

“No, no! I’m not crazy. I’m a good girl.” She sat up extra straight in her cutest good girl, not-crazy pose.

“Okay, is your friend going to stop us? Go tell her you’re leaving with me. We’re going to make snow angels.”

I believe in you Sebastian.

“Yay! Snow angels!” she cheered, clapping like a drunk baby. “I won’t let her stop us.”

It’s important to have a reason to leave, like making snow angels. Of course she knows we’re going to bang, but again, it’s not allowed to be her fault. It just has to happen, so she’s not a slut… even though she is. Sometimes I have a cool movie to show her, or my Siamese fighting fish, or a childish video game. You want to keep her mind occupied, far from logic and reality. It’s dangerous being a girl. They need to believe you aren’t going to eat them and use their bones for arts and crafts. There are believed to be cults of pua D&D nerds, rolling D10’s made of pure virgin tibia.

I held her hand while she talked to Princess Cock-block. Summer was on my side. Every few seconds she would give my hand a squeeze, and I’d reciprocate. We were on the same team: Team getting laid tonight. Then she looked at me with her big green eyes and said, “Let’s go!”

I walked her to the coat check, looked back and saw seven guys huddled in a group, watching me pull this hot little blond. I waved, they waved back.

Winning. Winning. Winning.

There was a snowstorm that night. Strong gusts were sending giant swirls that flew up our jackets and bullied us. On every corner were groups huddled for warmth, hailing taxis that zipped by, full with their lights off. This was bad. Girls don’t like being uncomfortable. They don’t get off on conquering hardships the way men do. This could spell disaster for my seduction.

“It looks like we’re walking lady,” I said.

“It’s nice out! I don’t mind a trek.”

“Good girl. I’ll carry you,” I said, and leaned down so she could get on my back. I carried her a few blocks and flopped into a snow bank. She screamed and punched my shoulders with her little fists. I picked her up and pushed her against a street lamp, put my tongue in her mouth and squeezed her firm, round ass. It was so excellent, and she tasted like the best Christmas ever. Across the street a group of young men were cheering us on. “Woooo! Go bro! Nice!”

“I really like your beard. It tickles my face.”

“Oh yeah, check it out woman!” I nuzzled in there and wiggled my face on her neck. She screamed. Our walk was long: at least thirty minutes, in a storm, but she didn’t complain, not once. Every few blocks I pushed her against a wall and kissed her, just to keep the fire stoked.

We were both freezing so I ducked into a busy pub. “Let’s grab another drink” I suggested.

I was a little worried that she would sober up and change her mind; that she would realize I’m only pretending to be this awesome. Her attractiveness was a bit intimidating. I was already imagining her as my future girlfriend. It wouldn’t be so bad. We could have picnics and go to wine and cheese parties, maybe meet each other’s parents. We could fight and then have make up sex. I could teach her pickup and we could have threesomes. We could do improv classes together, and go to indie-rock shows. People would look at her, and then at me, and wonder, “How did he do it?” Books, you fools, books.

We ordered a couple pints and sat down. Within thirty seconds the wolves descended. They figured I must be her brother, or gay best friend. One guy approached us crooning a Weezer song drunkenly into his beer glass.

“If you want to destroy, my sweater, pull my strings, and I’ll come undone!”

His eyes were squarely on Summer. I turned her head and kissed it until he pissed off. Under the table, I put my hand on her thigh, and crept up. She didn’t complain. I ventured a little higher and rubbed the outside of her pussy under her skirt. She smiled. I slipped a finger inside of her; she put her head on my shoulder and kissed my neck. It was time to get her home, before she changed her mind. I’m always a small trip away from failure.

She whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes…I do.”

I won’t let her go. I don’t care if it’s needy. I held her hand as we slipped through the crowd of young drunks, past make-outs and arm wrestling and binge drinking. The wolves were hunting, licking their teeth. Another guy tried his luck, but he was too messed up and I shouldered him out of the way. These guys were amateurs. While she was in the can I meditated on positivity—always positive. When she returned, I kissed her again, just to make sure.

We exited the den of drunkenness and landed back on the path of glory. We were still kissing and talking and I felt like a true champion; rightly validated. I thought of all the lonely losers sitting in their parent’s basements eating Cheetos and masturbating to pictures of their sisters’ best friends on Facebook. Not me. I’m a living legend. Such is the power of the dark side.

“Here it is! It only took us forty minutes. Not bad,” I said, unlocking my front door and ushering her inside.

“Haha. Yeah not bad,” she said, brushing snow from her hair, surprisingly chipper.

We snuck up the stairs past my roommate’s door. Once in my room, she turned around and pushed her breasts against me. I lifted off my shirt and she mirrored. I thought of my soft, chubby body, and her fit and youthful one. How did I do this again? I admired and explored her long gorgeous valleys of snowy flesh. Thank you, thank you, thank you Sebastian, you smart devil.

Nice work bro. But I’m sleepy.

Her pussy was freshly waxed with only a little landing strip remaining; a pussy-hawk. I couldn’t help myself. I got down, pulled aside her panties and kissed it. First all around the outside, in little circles venturing closer and closer to the center. It was like a pink little flower blossoming on my lips. Stars and rainbows and Unicorns hooray! She moaned and wiggled her hips and even laughed a little. As I was working away her cell phone rang. She reached down and punched in a long reply, then tucked it back into her purse. “Sorry, mmmmmm, that’s good,” she said, pulling at my hair.

She pulled me to the bed, fell to her knees and started her work. The amateur! Her teeth raked my dick. “Owww!” I cried. She tried again but she was terrible, so I flipped her over onto her belly and finger banged her from behind. She bucked her hips and squeezed my pillow while moaning with pleasure. I leaned into her for some dirty talk.

“Oh you’re so pretty. You’re little pussy is ready for me isn’t it?”

“Yes! It’s ready!” She replied enthusiastically. “Fuck me, fuck me please.”

You have to work a woman’s mind, as well as her body. I’ve got a friend in the Montreal lair that can bring a girl to orgasm with words alone. He’s a hypnotist. I’m not. So I use my penis.

Hey man. I’m not feeling so good tonight.

I slipped on a rubber that I had stashed under the mattress. I congratulated myself for preparing for such blissful moments. I hovered my dick just on top of her pussy, but halted shy of pushing in.

“I want you to beg for it,” I said.

“Oh please, oh please, I need it!”

“Do you really? I don’t believe you.” I shoved it in, just a little bit and pulled her hair, arching her head. “I can’t hear you Summer. Do you like me enough?”

“Yeeessssss! God fuck me now!!!! I like you, I like you!”

“Ok,” I said as I jammed it in, up to the hilt. She cried out and took it. I start thrusting like a mad man, but something wasn’t right. It just sort of noodled out. I was soft like a baby finger, or an uncooked sausage. I took it out and slapped it a few times. I put in back in. I played with her ass, her tits, her lips, but it just wouldn’t stay up. I got up and stretched, and tried again. I prayed to Crom even, but he wasn’t listening. After a while I gave up.

“Sorry, I don’t know. It must be the booze. Give me a minute.”

“Yeah, you drank a lot. It’s ok,” she said. “I already came anyway, when you were going down on me.”

“Really?”

“Yah.”

“Cool.”

I waited a few minutes and then tried again. I got semi-hard and gave it my best, but I couldn’t come. It just flopped around in there like a dying fish. Ashamed, I rolled off of her and put on my boxers. I finally pulled the hottest girl of my life and I couldn’t keep it up? What cruel joke is this? I laid on my back to rest and ponder the absurdity. Her phone rang.

“Yeah, tell my mom I stayed at your house ok? Yeah. Oh I’m ok. I’m just at that Nathan’s house, from the Cellar. Yeah. Oh my god, she did what? What a jerk! Yeah? Hmmm. Ok. Yeah? Ok. No he’s nice. I’m ok. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Yeah. She called me Nathan. Whatever.

Sorry dude… maybe you should work out more or, something. She must be disappointed.

I woke up early and looked over at my girl. She was stunning with the light shining through the window across her pouty, sleeping face. I played with her boobs for a little while until she woke up. I tried to give to her again, to make up for the poor performance the night before, and I did alright this time. I kept it up and lasted about ten minutes. Mental note, binge drinking makes sex fail. I took her for breakfast and we talked about insignificant things like school and work. I told her I wanted to see her again but she said she was going back to Halifax after Christmas, and she was busy every day until then.

Every day, I thought. Sounded like a blow off. Oh well. I guess that’s why they’re called one-night stands. The cycle continues.

I got to work early that day. I had a plan: I would charm some of the other managers for a promotion. I would double my production, work twice as fast, and be ten times as positive. As I was setting up my section, another manager, Mick, called me over. “Sebastian, I need to talk to you. Take a seat.”

“Ok.”

“You’re a really great guy, really smart. But you’ve been asking all the managers for promotion. You can’t just ask for a promotion. You have to earn it. On top of that, you’ve been talking back to the servers.”

“What’s wrong with asking? Shouldn’t you go for what you want, or make it known you want to succeed?”

He took a sip from his coffee.

“That’s not how it’s done. You need to be humble.”

“I don’t see how being humble will get a guy ahead in this life. You need to take action. I can’t stand being passive,” I said, growing irritated.

He checked a text message, wrote a reply and then looked at me.

“Look, Sebastian. It’s just not in the cards. If I was you, I would submit my resignation. Give two weeks.”

FUCK YOU

“Am I being fired?” I said, grinding my knuckles into the table.

“No, you’re not. But you should go. You won’t get ahead here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not for you.”

“Ok, that’s fine,” I said, standing up. “Can I go back to work now? I have a lot of tables to clean. People are extra sloppy during the holidays.”

“Yes, that’s all. And Sebastian, you’re very hireable. Don’t be down. This just isn’t the place for you.”

“Sure thing, boss,” I said, fixing my apron and heading back into the mess.

I walked past the bar. “Sebastian!” One of the servers yelled. “Where you been?”

One day people will line up to shake your hand. You will teach them how to free themselves from the tyranny of a sexless, artless, soulless, respectless, passionless existence, and rise above the sheep. You will do great things, and when these peons come to kiss your ass, you will fart on their lips. They’ll wipe the fart grease off their lips, and sell it on Amazon.

I could understand where the managers were coming from. I talk too much, ask too many questions. That’s not the way they did it. They did the grind, waiting for life to give them permission to move forward. They’d never created something out of nothing; they’d never done anything for themselves. All they did was find a job, collect their pay check and follow the rules. That’s what they expected me to do. That’s what we’ve been doing. That’s what you get.

“Sebastian! Section B needs water.”

“I’m coming,” I said.

Chapter 30

Con men of love (Boogers)

He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. “You see man. I can’t go to clubs. I have this disease that affects my ability to balance. It’s an inner ear disorder. I just get easily disoriented, and I need to use this cane for balance. I feel like the cane makes me look dumb so I don’t use it, but then I fall down.”

Rickard thumbed his chin over the steam from his tea and said, “Hmmmm, interesting.”

That’s what he always said when he didn’t know or care what to tell someone. I’d heard him say the same phrase countless times in his seminars before mumbling, “We’ll get back to that later.” Of course, he never did and the bewildered student would be forever lost in the jungle of his mind.

He looked at me and kept thumbing his chin hairs. “Sebastian. What do you think you can do for him?”

“Well, we could do day game. You don’t need to go to clubs to meet girls. There are malls, bookstores, coffee shops, dog parks.”

“I can’t even climb a flight of stairs." the cripple continued. "I get too confused and I fall. I’ve dealt with this my whole life. How could I ever find a girlfriend that would stay with a guy with a disability like mine?”

“Well,” Rickard said, still stroking his seven whiskers, “we will discuss your coaching options and contact you tomorrow.”

The student stood up, using his cane. “Thanks a lot guys; I can do this. It’s just this damn disease.” He wiped the tears from his face and we sent him on his way.

“Sebastian. I’m thinking,” he said in between sips of his tea. “I want you to take him to a gym and put him on a trampoline. And then take him swimming. This inner ear thing is pretty much a limiting belief. We can work through this.”

Umm…what?

“Put him on a trampoline?” I said, confused. “You’re kidding…right? It’s not a limiting belief. This guy is disabled.”

“Hmmm, interesting,” he said. “Well what do you think we should do?” He wiped his nose hair with his finger.

“Shit. I dunno. We can take him to the mall. He can still approach girls, but the guy needs medical care, not a dating coach. How much did he pay you?”

“Twenty five hundred. Ok, I’ll think about this tonight. Let’s get to the women’s’ meeting. It starts at four.”

I followed Rickard to his Hyundai. As we were driving past the mall I noticed a strange crust all around the edge of his seat. I peered a little closer, and to my utter horror, and disgust I discovered a long perimeter of encrusted boogers. Gag! He’d probably spent years picking his nose and wiping it there. I rolled down the window and hung my nose out to repress the vomit reflex. Where was the eject button? How does this guy get laid? Oh right… he doesn’t. I’d never seen him with a girl. He’s too busy picking his snot and wiping it on things. Bile.

I’d been coaching his clients and helping him with his seminars for free, for two months. The guy had never picked up a girl in front of me. He charged his clients thousands of dollars but didn’t actually care if he helped them. He just wanted their money. I couldn’t believe he wanted me to put that disabled dude on a fucking trampoline. How would that help him get a girl? That would just get him killed.

Rickard had started coaching for women, and the meeting was full of them. One of his junior coaches did the presentation and as he was flipping through a PowerPoint, Rickard crept around the outside perimeter with his digital camera, snapping pictures. At the end of the seminar a lady approached him to inquire as to why he was photographing the women.

“Oh, just for our personal records,” he replied.

“Personal records?” she frowned. “You mean, like a memento?”

“Yes. Like that.”

“You can’t take pictures of us. That’s so… unprofessional. We’re here for dating advice!”

She argued her case for a few minutes, and he convinced her that his pictures would not end up on the Internet. Although, I’m sure he had other plans for those pictures, involving creams and tissues. That’s when I added it all up. His slave labor coaches, unhappy clients, booger car seat, shitty game—this guy was a creep. All his clients loved me. I worked my ass off for them. Why should this guy make thousands of dollars while he takes advantage of his junior coaches? The next day I called him and said I wouldn’t be coming back. I was starting my own company.

“You can leave Sebastian, but you still owe me fourteen hundred for the coaching I gave you.”

“Coaching? What coaching?” I asked.

“All the training I gave you.”

“You didn’t train me at all.”

“Yes I did.”

“Whatever Rickard. Good luck. Sorry about this.” I hung up.

Over the next few days he texted me two dozen times to claim his money. The only coaching he ever gave me was telling me not to slouch. I’d put in over forty hours of work for this nose munching douche. There was no way I was paying him a dime. Many pickup coaching companies have bad reputations for lacking integrity. Many of them teach underhanded, manipulative tactics that have no bearing in reality. I wanted to work hard for a fair price and help people improve themselves. I think all men should have the choice to be with the quality of women they desire. How could you teach a guy to improve himself if you have no integrity? The next day I started my own company and began advertising for clients. I found three in the first week.

Rickard no longer teaches dating.

Chapter 31

Sand Pussy (Eradication of guilt)

Julia wiped the ketchup from her full lips, looked out the restaurant window at the sunset over the English Bay, put down her fork, and continued talking. “And I figured when I finish University I’ll go to Thailand for six months. My friend Jenny is going, so I’ll go with her. We’re gonna ride elephants and get fucked up. It’ll be sick. Have you been?”

“No,” I said, “but I’ve always wanted to go. Maybe one day, if I can make some money.”

Julia was the friend of a friend. One lonely evening I sent her a message on Facebook, and asked her out for a drink. She agreed, and here we were. I leaned in to go for my second try at a kiss, but she pulled away again. They rarely let you the first time. It’s not rejection, they just aren’t sure yet, so you need to build comfort by talking more. She was nineteen, five foot ten, blond, blue eyed and a bit Nordic looking, like she’d be good on a polar bear swinging a battle axe. She was a nice girl but got retarded, and easy to bang when she drank, or so I’d heard. I thought that was fine, because when I drink I also get retarded and easy to bang.

“No, you haven’t been?”she continued. “I can’t wait. I just wish it wasn’t so expensive to travel. It’s hard to save money; Vancouver is so expensive. I’m already working three days a week and going to school; I don’t know how I’ll save money, but I just love going out and partying costs soooo much money.”

I watched her boobs go up and down as she told me her story. I didn’t care about her trip to Thailand, or her friends, or any of that bullshit. I’d been on too many dates that lead to nothing, or bad sex, or some other nonsense. I’d decided before I even messaged her I didn’t want to be her boyfriend: I just wanted to sleep with her three or four times and move on.

“And Jenny is always bragging about her car, and I’m like, I can’t afford a car! So my brother knows I’m a student but wants to borrow money from me, even though he still owes me like, four hundred dollars or something, and I’m all, why don’t you get a job bro, you’re the oldest. I can’t wait to finish school I’m just going to lay on the beach and drink every day; it will be awesome. Jenny said that I could…..”

I reached my hand out and put my finger on her lips. “When are you going to shut the fuck up and kiss me?”

She gazed back, then parted her lips into a little smile, leaned in, pushed out her lips, and then her tongue was in my mouth. I thought about all the food that was probably stuck in her teeth, but I didn’t care, much. At least I was past that stage, the kissing part; earlier the better.

I split the bill with her and we went to the store, grabbed a mickey of gin and some juice, then went to the beach and sat on a log to watch the sunset and get tanked.

“You’re just trying to get me drunk aren’t you?” she said, pushing my chest.

I guess I was. I pushed her back and she fell onto the sand. I fell on top of her.

“You’re trying to get me drunk lady. You want to rape me.”

“I don’t want to rape you! Oh my god!”

“Shut up bitch!” I said, and shoved my tongue back against hers. We played this stupid game of insulting and kissing and drinking until the sun finally set over English Bay. Ten minutes later it was dark, so I took her closer to the water. Our bottle was empty and neither of us were walking, or talking like proper, decent human beings. It was all fighting, wrestling, tonguing, touching, and squeezing and probing and yelling fake insults at each other. Finally I pulled her onto the sand, behind a log, where the night would hide us. She was wearing a skirt so I put my finger inside her and she let out a whimper.

“Fuck me now. Get your dick out,” she demanded.

“Ok, ok your highness. Geez,” I replied, fumbling for my condom. I found it, ripped it open and slipped it on with one hand. I eased up inside her until I reached the hilt, and started pumping away. She was tight.

“Ole! Senor! Oooooooh si, si, si!” she screamed in Spanish.

This confused me because she was blond and Canadian, but I continued to slam away on the beach with the waves crashing and the land crabs watching, clicking their claws to the beat. In the distance, I could hear people laughing in hushed tones. Yes, cheer away. I’m a bastard and you love me for it, you jealous freaks.

“Ole, ole, senor!” she continued screaming.

It started to feel gritty down there. She had sand in her pussy. Then suddenly the sex felt better, softer, warmer. Logic told me my only condom was ripped to shreds. Every instinct wanted me to come inside this fertile creature, but I’m too scared of babies.

“What a great condom!” I said, pulling out and inspecting the flapping rubber.

Julia pushed me off and got up. I looked down and saw it had ripped.

“Too much sand!” she whined. Then she started tearing through her purse. “Sebastian! Where’s my phone? I can’t fucking find my phone. My phhhooooonnne!”

“What? I didn’t touch your goddamn phone woman! It must have fallen out.”

She ran up and down the beach with her head near the sand, drunk-faced and yelling nonsense at the night creatures. It’s not like she could have found anything in the dark.

“Jesus,” I said. “Give me your hand and follow me.” I took out my cell phone and used the flashlight function to scour the sand. We searched together. That’s all she wants, I thought, is a man to take charge of her rampaging emotions. We got half way up the beach and she was still freaking out yelling, “Where is it?” and digging through her purse. I just wanted to get back to her apartment so I could finish banging her. It wasn’t far away, but the girl kept spazzing out in a drunken fervor. I got fed up and grabbed the damned purse away from her.

“Woman! You think it’s in here?” I said, and then slowly turned it upside down and let the contents spill on the sidewalk. There was her makeup, keys, coins, various knick knacks and, of course, her cell phone.

“Thanks baaaby. You’re the best,” she said, cuddling up to my neck and squeezing my balls. She was nuts when she drank, that much was for sure. We finally got back to her apartment, a tiny little mess with clothes strewn about, a reflection of her mind I suppose. It reminded me of Olivia. I put her on the bed and had my way, this time minus the sand and cheering crowds. I didn’t have another condom so I raw-dogged her. I couldn’t help it, she was so young and hot…I came inside her.

“Dude, no! You should have pulled out,” she whined.

“Sorry.”

“You’re dirty.”

“I guess I am.”

I reminded myself to get an STD test that week.

A few days later she knocked on my door, came into my apartment, gave me a blowjob, swallowed my load, and walked out. And that was it. Wow. I never saw her again…not romantically. Once I ran into her at a party. She was across the club, but had spotted me first. Her middle finger hovered in the air, directed at me. I shrugged with a confused face, but I wasn’t confused. I’d straight up played her, and didn’t feel the least bit bad about it. It was like a trip to the Laundromat. I was clean of guilt. I was a real bastard. Then why did I feel so cheeky? Revenge? To whom? Someone, somewhere, sometime. I really didn’t give a shit anymore.

Sorry bout that.

I’m not sorry.

Chapter 32

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.

“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.

Chapter 33

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.

Chapter 34

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.

Chapter 35

New Year, New Woman (Luv?)

“Five, four, three, two, one, Happy New Years!!” we all screamed.

Streamers flew, balloons bounced, champagne popped. I grabbed at the nearest pretty girl, but she turned away so I grabbed for another. A little plump for my tastes, but good enough for a kiss. “Happy 2010 baby!” I said and put a wet smacker on her lips. I went back to my spot on the couch to work on my beer and fish for girls. The chubby one was staring at me. I shouldn’t have kissed her, I thought.

The kid sitting beside me said, “Hey bro. I’ve heard you teach pickup, is that true?”

Why yes, yes it is. He knows us. Don’t disappoint him.

“I used to. I haven’t done that in a while,” I said, pretending aloofness but enjoying the attention. But it was true. I hadn’t found a client in four months. I hadn’t tried. I was no pickup artist. I was brutally destroyed by ancient ghosts of rejection past.

“That’s awesome! Can I ask, how did you get into it?”

A girl threw up in the corner. More streamers.

“Well…I guess I was really lonely, and horny.”

“Now you aren’t?”

Two boys were making out. People were pretending not to care.

“Always, it’s a sickness.”

“So why don’t you coach anymore? That sounds like a pretty awesome job. I wish I had that job.”

“You could have it.”

“Nah man, I suck with girls.”

“Takes practice.”

I was scared. Scared of failure, scared of success, scared of what people would think of me. Years spent trying to mask these fears, and they were still there, buried. Maybe we never overcome our emotions; we just learn to ignore them.

“You see,” I continued, “being a dating coach is like being a rock star, except instead of hot groupies you get awkward men. And you might want to settle down right? But you’re always on the road, and you’re always meeting new people, and what girl wants to be with that guy? Plus, most of contemporary society thinks you’re a creepy a douche-bag who is obsessed with one night stands and multiple sex partners. You’re like a walking std.”

The kid looked down at his hands, then back at me. “I dunno man, it sounds pretty cool to me. I wish I had that job. I work at Walmart.”

“That’s not so bad,” I lied.

"It sucks hard.”

“Ok.”

“Have you been with a lot of girls?”

A cat jumped onto my lap and sharpened its claws on my crotch.

“I’ve been with enough that if I’m never with another I would be ok with that.”

“So… what do you do for work now?” he asked.

The cat laid down for a nap, purring softly.

“I’m unemployed since last month. But I usually work in restaurants.”

“You’re a server?”

“No, a bus boy.”

“Yeah right,” he chuckled.

“No, for real,” I said.

The girl was snoring in her vomit. Some guy was drawing on her back with a magic marker.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh,” he said.

“No worries. Whatever.”

“You should coach again.”

“Ehhh, I don’t know.”

He had a right to laugh. Preferring to bus tables over coaching was absurd, but I was done with pickup. I was tired of hitting on girls that didn’t care; going out night after night to these lame fucking clubs surrounded by douche-bags and teenage pill junkies. I was sick of the flakes and the emotional destruction of my addiction to validation. I’m awesome, I have game, I’m handsome and smart. Why is it so freaking hard to find a hot, intelligent girlfriend? And after three years of work? This was supposed to be fun. Supposed to be easy. It was a mystery.

Yeah, you suck.

And then I saw her, at ten minutes past midnight, like a long legged angel of ancient song, dancing amongst the streamers and celebratory tinsel. “My god, those legs!” I muttered. I’d seen her earlier in the evening. She’d already been kissing another guy, already broken my heart, but he wasn’t around right now. Fuck him.

“So, how do you approach a girl? What do you say?” he asked.

“Well, lately I just say, “Hey, come here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Watch,” I said.

Victoria said she hadn’t seen me until I yelled, “Hey, come here!” at her. But when I did, she looked at me, smiled suspiciously, and walked over. She had straight, shoulder length brown hair, a wide mouth and full lips. She wasn’t tall, but lithe, and very beautiful. Those legs were really something. She was exactly what I wanted. I reached up, took her hand and pulled her gently onto the couch. She sat submissively.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Victoria. What yours?”

“I’m Sebastian. Hey, get your phone out. I want to recite my new year’s resolutions to you.”

“Ok,” she said, pulling out her phone and filming me.

“I vow, this year, I won’t be a capitalist pig, and I’ll always be positive, always. And I’ll make fifty thousand dollars.”

“Those are good resolutions!”

“Thank you. I’m a genius. Touch the genius, c’mon, touch me.”

“Oh, you’re soooo smart. Oh my god, I’m touching you.”

“Yeah…”

I dragged Victoria around the house and tried to make out with her, but she would just laugh and push me off. She’d already kissed one boy that night, and didn’t want to be slutty. A good girl—or at least she pretended to be. I took her to a bedroom under the guise of showing her something, “really important,” and tried again. She wouldn’t have it. I pulled her to a dry-erase board and we drew stupid pictures of Unicorns. Her friends waited patiently on a couch for her. “They hooked up with some guys in the back of a truck,” she whispered. “They want to go home, but they’re going to stay for ten more minutes.”

Excellent. She’s yours master Jedi.

I took her outside to find a taxi, but they were all full and the phone lines were busy. Victoria just stood there, amused. Time was running out. I thought about pulling her onto someone’s front lawn, until a group of laughing partiers stumbled out of the house, distracting us.

“How old are you?” she asked.

Here we go again.

“I’m thirty-one. You?”

“Thirty one?” She paused to consider this. “Wow. You’re old. I’m nineteen.”

“Story of my life.”

She blinked a few times.

“What? What does that mean?”

“You’re a little girl.”

“I am not! But you’re too old for me, I think.”

The crickets were in full song. Some were winning, some losing. But no matter what, they still had their song.

“I’m fine with that,” I said. “Your loss lady.”

I was upset, but I masked it. Most women didn’t want me unless I did a magical pickup tap-dance. I had to be at my best, always. And if I didn’t fuck them the night we met, the odds of meeting up again were one in a thousand. So I’d formed a barrier between my emotions and actions. I pretended not to care. I was willing to walk away, and if she wanted to see me, she could chase.

“Anyway, “I said. “I gotta go. Happy New Years. Drive safe.”

“Oh. Umm, well, ok. Bye.”

She seemed disappointed…good.

Shut up you.

And then I walked.

It’s always the next girl. If one gives you too much shit, move on. There’s always another beautiful, smart, charming, intelligent girl that wants a guy like me. I just needed to find her, somewhere in the multiverse of hysteria. So I ditched Victoria, left her standing there, and walked around the block looking for a taxi. I found none so I returned to the house. Maybe there would be another girl for me. I had an aching boner. I’d need to spank it tonight.

I found the party host trying to block a drunk kid from getting inside. “But maaannn!” The drunk complained. “I need a place to sleeeeeep!”

“You can’t come in, we don’t know you,” the host said.

“But I live in the West End!”

“No man, I’m sorry.”

The kid was pushing the host, and the host didn’t seem able to handle himself. I knew this guy, the host. He was into pickup but never went out, never approached girls, and never got laid. So of course he couldn’t handle this situation.

I stepped in. “Hey!” I said. “He said you can’t come in. Go home.”

“But I need to stay here!” he whined, and tried to push past me.

“No.”

He tried to push past me again, so I grabbed him by the front of his jacket and drove him backwards across the lawn, about thirty steps, put my leg behind his ankles, and pushed his chest. The kid fell to the ground. He looked up at me sadly.

“Hey, I don’t want any trouble man,” he said.

“Me neither. Go before I give you some.”

I wanted to give him trouble. I wanted to take out my frustrations on this little dude. I took a step forward and then stopped and sighed heavily.

“Go home bro. You’ll be fine,” I said.

The kid stumbled drunkenly away.

I turned back to the host.

“Wow, that was awesome. Thanks Sebastian.”

I frowned. “You can’t reason with people when they’re like that. Even if you aren’t a tough guy, they don’t know that. Just step up and dominate them. They’ll back off.”

“Yeah, I know, he was just, you know. Well, thanks.”

“No worries,” I said.

Becoming a more dominant man had paid off. Even though I wasn’t able to fight, I could pretend. I was a far cry from the kid with boobies that got picked on in elementary school. I went inside the house. It was empty. I went to the bedroom where I left my jacket and opened the door. The guy that had been kissing Victoria was standing in the middle of the room in his underwear, with two giggling girls on his bed.

“Dude! Shut the door.”

“I need my jacket.”

“Fuck, here, take it, go, go.”

“Man, you’re spoiled, I’m coming in!” I said. But he pushed me out and slammed the door. I considered kicking it in and pulling out my dick. Instead I walked outside into the morning air and started my long trek home. It was a nice night and I enjoyed the walk. I thought about Victoria and how I might have got her if I didn’t give up so easily, and then I let it go. It was a new year. There would be more.

There always are.

Chapter 36

Victoria (Cherry-poppin)

A few days later I checked my Facebook; there was a friend request from Victoria.

Fuck yeah, rock star.

We exchanged a few lines of banter and I invited her over to my apartment. I analyzed her pictures. She wasn’t just cute, she was a drop dead knockout, and smart too. I smoked a joint and whacked it to my favorite one. Hey, it’s what guys do.

She must have asked around about me. A woman will only contact you if she’s interested, and most women will never contact you unless their friends give a thumbs up. I supposed she heard all about my antics and womanizing ways, which probably helped.

I did a mach five speed clean over my apartment. Scrubbed the dishes, washed the laundry, dusted the tv—then I rushed to the liquor store and bought two bottles of wine and some beer. Booze is critical. I wanted to keep her a little drunk so she wouldn’t wise up and change her mind. She arrived at seven p.m. in a tight black skirt that highlighted her fantastic nineteen year old legs. I told her she reminded me of a baby cow, all covered in goo, because they were so long. We sat and drank a little and laughed a lot. I put my arm around her and she cuddled up to me. She got all my stupid jokes and had a few of her own. We played some Little Big Planet on my PlayStation and she screamed every time she died. I leaned in to kiss her and this time she gave in, easily. Sweet bliss. She was perfect for me. Not only young and beautiful, but mature, classy, funny and very, very fond of me.

She stayed over that night, but when I went for her pussy, she brushed my hand away. “Ummm,” she said. Her cheeks were red.

“What is it?”

“I’m sort of a virgin.”

A dog barked outside.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Uhuh.”

The dog stopped barking. Then it gave one tiny woof and was silent.

“That’s ok. Are you ready?” I asked.

“Not today, but soon. I want to.”

“With me?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. Ok. Deal. You know, it’s gonna hurt.”

She laughed. “No shit.”

I’ve never been a virgin hunter. That shit doesn’t turn me on, but I’ll admit it’s a great trip for the ego to know that you were her first. I spent so many years hunting sluts so I could end up in monogamy with a virgin. How ironic. She may forget the others, but my imprint will remain eternal, the first.

I was done with hunting. I was sick of bars and clubs and constant emotional apocalypses. I never told her how badly I wanted her to be my girl. She was really into hip hop and gangsterism fascinated her…so I played aloof and gangster, which worked great. On our fifth date, with sex imminent, she stood up in front of me, straightened herself, took a deep breath and said, “Are you seeing other girls? Because if you are, I’ll leave. I’ll walk out, right now. I don’t want that sort of relationship.”

I looked at her tiny figure, her bright eyes and admired her courage. I laughed a little and said, “I’m not seeing anyone else.” I don’t think she believed me, but it was enough.

“Really?” she asked shyly.

“No. Nobody else.”

“I thought you might be seeing other girls.”

“I’m not.”

“Everyone says you’re a great guy.”

“I am.”

She cuddled up with me and I took her to my bed. Victoria will be my girl, I thought. I’m ready for that now. It’s her choice and that’s how it is. I slept with dozens of great women, had my heart crushed and ego destroyed, lived through an adventure and transformed my personality. I needed a rest. I wasn’t cut out for all this player crap.

“Here, come here. I want to spoon,” I said. “We deserve a good spoon.”

“We sure do,” she agreed.

I laid her in the bed and we kissed. I took off her clothes and then mine. I mounted her and gently pushed in, just a little. She was trembling.

“Fuck! Owwwww!” she howled.

“Are you ok?”

“It fucking hurts.”

“It’s ok, let’s try another angle. Here.”

I covered my dick with lube and pushed in again, slowly.

“Ahhhhh! Ow ow ow ow ow…”

I laughed.

“Don’t laugh Sebastian! It’s not funny!”

“Sorry, but it sort of is. Relax baby.”

“Try again,” she sighed.

Chapter 37

Beauty is Only Skin Deep (Think and grow rich)

You never plan for terrible things; sometimes they just happen. You wonder if maybe you’d made different choices in the past your Karma bank would remain full. You hope that your loved ones live as healthy and happily as possible, and that no wars or natural disasters break out. You hope that you can continue to eat junk food and remain thin; you hope that you can sit around playing video games and going to work and one day you’ll get lucky and make lots of money and everything will just work out. But life isn’t like that.

It started off great. Victoria and I would see each other three or four times a week. We got along brilliantly. We’d watch good movies at night, drink a little, go dancing, play video games, watch smart movies and have great sex. Taking her virginity was very painful for her, but she came to love fucking. She made me laugh often and we were doing fine.

What I learned about game I applied to my relationship. I was always positive. I never complained, or displayed my insecurities. I made her come almost every time we had sex. I kept my word on things. When I said I’d do something, like go to the gym, or clean my bathroom, or keep a date…I would. But I didn’t allow my world to be dictated by her desires. I remained on the righteous path, and she remained attracted to me.

I found another restaurant job at a high-end shithole. The plan was that I would move up the ranks and be a highly paid server within one year. My first indication that I was deluding myself came at our first staff meeting. They made us all watch a video about positivity. Most of the staff bitched and whined about the video. I’d never worked with an angrier, more entitled bunch of cokehead yahoos. I asked some of the bussers how long they’d been cleaning tables.

“Two years.”

“Six months.”

“Three years.”

The coaching business was non-existent. I wasn’t advertising, or writing. I was working on a fiction novel that Victoria was encouraging me to write, but besides that I was somewhat content to slave away at the restaurant. I knew this was a dead end, but going home to Victoria kept me satisfied. The problem was, I was broke. I was lucky to take home twelve hundred a month, and she made less than that as a barista. But still, we were happy for a time; until tragedy struck.

One night, about three months into our relationship, we were kissing and I noticed her upper lip was a little bit red. We figured it was from my moustache. She asked me ever so politely to shave it off, and I did. No big deal. Two days later I was waiting for her to come over to watch a movie and she texted me:

“So… my face got a little bit worse. No, a lot worse.”

When I met her at my door, I was shocked. It looked like she’d been beaten up. She had a giant goiter on her forehead the size of half a golf ball, followed by dozens of others, of all sizes, going down over her cheeks and onto her chin. She was all red and swollen. It was terrible.

“What happened babe!? Are you allergic to something?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It just happened,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

I hugged her. She said that this was the second time her face had exploded with cystic acne. She had no idea what caused it. “How long will it take to heal?” I asked. She didn’t know, but the last time it happened, it took six months.

Six months was an awful long time, but I was willing to wait it out. I wasn’t so shallow I’d dump the girl I loved because she had a skin problem. It took me three years to learn how to get a girl like her. I wasn’t about to toss her.

Her dermatologist put her on some terrible drug. It made her skin dry up even more, it made her cranky, it made her eyes go bloodshot, it lowered her sex drive, it made her even more depressed. She was still beautiful and funny, but her ability to express herself was diminished. Her thoughts were constantly on what other people thought about her, and she believed everyone was looking, and laughing at her. After a few months her swelling went down, but what was left were tiny pockmarks from where the doctors had pricked the cysts. They left scars, and a slightly red area where the skin had been stretched.

Without her makeup she was still a babe, just a babe with a few hardly noticeable acne scars. I really didn’t mind. But what I did mind was her use of makeup. She wore so much makeup that she looked like she was wearing a mask. Sometimes she looked like the Joker. I would tell her, “Babe, you don’t look bad at all. You look great. But you wear so much makeup it looks ridiculous. It looks like a mask. Just try to go out one day without the makeup.”

She said I didn’t understand, and the makeup was for her, not me.

I’d make her wash it off before she came to bed. It made her cry the first time I made her do that, but after the first time she knew to do it every time. Maybe I’m an asshole, but I want to look at my girlfriends face, not a painting of it. I wanted to take her out more, and buy her nice things, to make her happy, but I never had money. My self-esteem was low as well.

About nine months into our relationship I started to notice little things about her personality that I didn’t notice before; maybe because I was blinded by her sex appeal and good behavior. She hated everything self-help. Whenever I talked about positivity or great books by guys like Tony Robbins, or Steven Covey, or Nietzsche, she would roll her eyes. I got her to read some Eckhart Tolle, but she thought it was gay. I mean, she was nineteen so I shouldn’t blame her, but I had a hard time dealing with my girlfriend not being at all intrigued in my number one interest. She could at least get into Yoga, or meditation, or something. Then there was her lifestyle. She would eat candy like a goat, buying these big bags of the stuff. When I mentioned that candy might have something to do with her skin condition, she would just get annoyed and tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about, which I didn’t. And she was a slob. Not in her appearance, but her car was a complete mess all the time, her bedroom was a disaster. I would mention this to her, but she didn’t care. Also, she had no ambition, or interests. She used to want to be an actress and a photographer, but it was dashed by her acne, or so she said.

She was a talented photographer, but she didn’t have any money to buy a camera. When I tried helping her to think more positively so we could imagine ways to make money, she would just shoot me down and tell me to get off her case. I think I would have overlooked all of this had she not been stricken with the terrible skin condition. It changed her personality. I could relate to her feeling of helplessness. It was the same when I had man-boobs. She couldn’t hide her face under a baggy shirt.

This is a normal part of a long term relationship. You take the good and the bad and weigh it out. But I wasn’t ready for that. I was still a relationship newbie. I wasn’t getting ahead in the restaurant business. I was barely making rent and food. I had nothing extra. I felt like I had no purpose or mission. I needed to do something. I needed a change.

One day I said to Victoria, “Did I ever tell you I used to be a dating coach?”

“Cool!” she said, enthusiastically.

“Yeah. Well I’m gonna to do it again to make some extra money.”

“Is it like Hitch?” she asked innocently.

“Well, sort of. But I’m way blacker and have a bigger…jet ski.”

“You give dating advice?”

“Sort of. I’ll explain it later.”

“Ok,” she said, and went back to playing Grand Theft Auto.

She had no idea. I wanted to keep it that way.

I found my first client and made an extra six hundred dollars. It was a huge relief because I needed clothes, food, and all that rubbish. Victoria was very supportive, but I wasn’t being the man she loved. I started acting childish, complaining, pouting, failing on my word. I was self-sabotaging my relationship. Pathetic. I didn’t have the balls to end it like a man. I didn’t know if I wanted to. I didn’t know much of anything. I was meeting a lot of women at work and the temptation was great. I’d never cheated and I didn’t want to. Guilt is evil.

One day she asked me what the address to my blog was. I gave her the Url but I knew she’d already read it. Then she confronted me.

“You said on your blog that you got four phone numbers in one day.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why would you do that?”

“It’s called a demo. I have to show the students how to get a phone number.”

“But it’s so, so, disrespectful to me!” she said. Her face was probably getting red, but I couldn’t tell under all the makeup.

“No babe. It has nothing to do with you. It’s work.”

“What else do you demonstrate?”

I explained my job; how I taught guys to approach at bars and clubs and malls and everywhere else.

She was confused. She didn’t want me to take girls phone numbers.

“I have to babe, it’s my job,” I told her, but she didn’t care.

We fought for a few days over this until I eventually gave in. “Ok, no more phone numbers,” I told her—I lied. I couldn’t tell my student to do something and not demonstrate it myself. It’s not like I called the numbers. I could understand why she would be pissed off, but I wasn’t about to alter my professional life for anyone, especially not for a girl, any girl. There would always be girls, but I only have this career to make a living with. As cruel as that sounds, a man must stay on his path.

One day Victoria confronted me a second time. “Ok,” She sighed. “Are you cheating on me?”

“What? No, I’m not,” I said. I wasn’t.

“Because you just bought a new pack of condoms, and one is missing.”

I looked at her and felt disappointed. It wasn’t like her to be jealous. She was usually really good. But now, in this situation, I couldn’t even see her. All I saw was an insecure girl wearing a makeup mask.

“It’s under the bed, where I always keep condoms. I put it there for us,” I said.

Victoria walked over, looked under the mattress and pulled out the condom. She looked at me with tears running down her cheeks. They drew long streaks down her makeup. I couldn’t feel bad about it. I understood what she was going through with her skin condition and her pickup artist boyfriend, but what could I do? She apologized, but I was annoyed and sent her home for the night.

I was getting restless. I wanted to become a great dating coach but it was hard to find clients in Vancouver. Jeff, my old friend from Montreal, asked me if I wanted to fly out and coach him for six hundred dollars, which would mean leaving Victoria for a month.

“I don’t know man,” I said. “I don’t think the high end shithole will give me the time off work.”

“Have you asked?” he said.

“No, I don’t know.”

“Sebastian, you have a fear of success. Do you really want to serve tables for the rest of your life? You’re better than that. Go ask for the time off.”

“Ok, I will,” I promised him.

The next day I got to work and went to the manager’s office. The boss was sitting in her chair, working out the schedule for the month.

“Hi Marnie,” I said. “I wanted to ask you. I’m planning a short trip to Montreal, for about a week, a month from now. Could I have the time off?”

She looked up at me, lowering her glasses, “Oh…ok. Well, we’ll see what we can do.” She went back to pecking at her computer.

“This trip could make me some extra money.”

“Well, we will see. It’s a busy month,” she said, without looking up.

“What are the odds you’ll give it to me?”

She turned her chair to face me and took off her glasses. “Sebastian. You’re doing really well, but you need to learn to be humble. I’ll let you know next week if you can get the time off.”

“Well,” I adjusted my posture. “I need to know soon, because the flight will get more expensive the closer to the date it gets.”

“I understand, Sebastian. I’ll let you know.”

I left the office and bussed my tables. I watched as people wiped the grease from their chins. I refilled their water. Some of the servers bitched me out for being too slow. Maybe I am too slow. Maybe I’m not meant to be here, I thought. Maybe I would rather gouge out my eyes with a hard-boiled egg than bus another fucking table. Maybe some people trap themselves in a situation because they’re scared of making the wrong decision. Maybe they don’t realize life is painful and short, and it will all be over soon.

The next day I showed up to work ten minutes early. I walked into the office and placed my apron on Marnie’s desk, “Sorry, but I can’t work here anymore. Thanks for the job.”

She looked at me with a sour expression. “Sebastian, you should submit something in writing. We need two week’s notice.”

“Sorry about that. Good luck,” I said, and walked out.

As I left the building I looked back over my shoulder and whispered, “Biatch!” In two weeks I would be teaching men how to improve their lives, and being paid rather handsomely for that service. Fuck that place. I’m awesome.

Sometimes it takes a few tries to get something right.

I love me.

Chapter 38

Montreal, La Deuxième Partie (World War Me)

When I told Victoria I was leaving for a month, she supported me. She cried the day I left, because she would miss me. We’d been together for over a year. It was adorable and a little bit sad, but I didn’t have much to be sad about—I was too busy being nervous. I’d managed to drum up six students for the month, and they were paying me money to teach them how to get with pretty girls. I was supposed to take them to clubs and bars and lead by example. I was excited but stressed out, and I took about four nervous shits before getting on the plane, and then another two during the flight. I drank about thirty dollars worth of alcohol to calm myself on the turbulent flight.

On my first boot camp I was so nervous that I bought a flask of vodka, and took shots on bathroom breaks. I had to teach these guys how to pick up girls in the day time, something I’d only done a few times myself. All my students thought I was this big player, but in reality, I was just a normal guy that learned how to work hard to achieve a goal. I wasn’t a pimp.

At first I tried to hide this, but even now, I make it clear to my students I am not a master pickup artist fucktard. I’m human, and I’m fallible. Once I started being real about what I did, my job became easier. If you get into this stuff, at some point you need to let go of the concept that you will ever be magically attractive to the opposite sex. Just do the best to improve who you are and accept yourself.

On one of the boot camps I made out with a pretty girl. The students were impressed. I’d just cheated on my girlfriend, but I didn’t feel bad about it, not at all. I justified it as a part of my job. It wasn’t like I was getting bj's in the toilet. Victoria was a real sweetheart but she was also very conservative. I wanted to explore my sexuality, and try new things like threesomes, and ass-fucking. I wanted her to come out and pick up girls with me, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t like that…yet. Maybe in the future, after she was destroyed by seven or eight players she might be into it. I started to consciously think about letting her go.

On the last day of my final boot camp I was walking to the bank with five thousand dollars, made in three weekends, and all of my students were ecstatic. I deposited my money and on the trip home I felt a surge of pride, relief, and joy. I was overcome with emotion. I sat down on the sidewalk and started crying. The sun warmed the tears and then I was laughing. I fucking did it, I fucking did it, fuck you all. I went to the deppanneur, bought a tall cold beer and lay down in the park. I was going to be ok. And I was never going to be a wage slave, ever again. You can bus your own tables. I’ll do this instead.

After thirty days in Montreal, I returned to Vancouver, to face my bullshit.

I lay down beside Victoria and kissed her, gently at first, then a bit harder. She kissed me back but kept her hands to herself. She wasn’t putting in any effort. I took her clothes off and admired her beautiful, young body, her long legs, her full mouth. When I tried to enter her, she squirmed away from me, nervously. She was uncommonly anxious. I checked below—it was totally dry—Mars pussy.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, looking away from me.

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“I do,” I said, solemnly. “You’re not attracted to me anymore.”

She turned and looked me in the eyes.

“Well?” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

“What do we do?”

I laid there beside her for a minute, saying nothing, then I looked at her. “We break up.”

I helped her grab her things, and walked her to the door. I couldn’t help it, tears started running down my face. It sucked ass. Why did this happen? What the hell was I doing? Instead of manning up, I’d been acting like a beta pussy for months. She’d lost attraction for me and it was my doing. I was pathetic. Whatever lesson I was supposed to learn, I still hadn’t figured it out.

Lame dude. Lame.

I’d been with her for eighteen months; my longest relationship in nine years. I hugged and kissed her for the last time and then she drove away.

Just like that, she was gone.

I did twenty pushups, cried again, got drunk and played video games, then threw up in the toilet and fell asleep. I repeated the process for about three days.

I was sad about losing her, but at the same time…excited. I’d learned a lot by being in a longer relationship. I started going to parties again. I focused on my business and found more clients. I had a slow couple of months, so again, to make some extra money, I found yet another bussing job. It didn’t last long. During a coaching session I hit on the chef’s best-friend’s girlfriend. The next day at the restaurant, in the kitchen, from behind the counter, he confronted me over it. “My buddy is coming down here to kick your ass!”

“Then your buddy…is an idiot.”

“What did you call him?”

I was done taking shit. I had enough money to live off for six months.

I felt that warm, familiar glow, deep inside me—the one that loves the brave unknown, the Unicorn. It had its horn up Hitler’s ass. I undid my apron and placed it on the counter.

“I quit,” I said. “Fuck this place.”

The kitchen staff laughed in shock and stared at me.

I walked out of the kitchen, through the restaurant and past the office. I leaned in and said to the manager, “Sorry man. I have to go. Mail me my last check.”

“That’s it? You’re done?” He said, confused.

“Yeah, I’m done.”

“What are you gonna do?”

I looked at his laptop, it was a pretty girls Facebook page.

“I’m gonna do what I do.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Hah. Ok man, you should stay. You’re our best busboy.”

“There will be others.”

“Yeah, there will. Damn. Good luck.”

“See you around.”

“Ok Sebastian.”

I went outside and looked around at the people on the street, coming from work, from shopping, texting and blabbing on their cell phones. I was free to start again, with more experience, drive and wisdom. I thought about Esther, Eric, Mark, Olivia, Jeff, Victoria and all the women and friends I’d met. All of these shit-jobs and adventures. Yeah, I did something, and it worked. Now what?

A pretty redhead walked by slowly, as if she had nowhere to be. She was a few feet ahead of me. Her butt-cheeks bounced like smiling baby cheeks. I followed her past a travel agency. On the sign were lists of cheap flights all around the worId: Montreal, Bangkok, Berlin, Rio, New York. We passed two dogs fucking in a park. A young girl, about sixteen, was eating an ice cream cone and crying while her boyfriend comforted her on a park bench. The redhead stopped to look into a store window at a mannequin wearing a long blue dress.

Go for it man.

I walked up to the girl and tapped her shoulder. She turned around.

“Hi. My name’s Sebastian. I just thought you looked… nice.”

She stared at me oddly, like she might blow her rape whistle. Then slowly, she eased up, her lips parted into a warm smile, she fixed her hair.

“Hi Sebastian. I’m Jenny.”

Epilogue

The Four Thousand Islands, Laos, 2013 (Hardship)

The river was calm as I swam, pushing our inner-tube into the great Mekong river. I watched Sasha’s cute, white, Ukrainian bum, and made a mental toast to my inner Unicorn.

“How long have you been travelling?” She asked, looking back over her shoulder.

I quit kicking at the water and looked at her. “Well, I started in Bangkok three months ago. I’ve been to Cambodia as well. Hey, watch where we’re going. You’re the Captain, remember?”

She laughed. “Yes, I am the Captain. Three months! What do you do for work? That is an expensive trip.”

I thought for a second.

“It took me four years to figure out how to get here. I’m a life coach.”

“Oh? That’s so cool!”

“Yeah, I’m pretty awesome.”

“You’re pretty young to be a life coach.”

“Yeah. I’m thirty-four.”

“Oh, you’re old!”

She splashed me in the face, and I shook the inner-tube, threatening to flip her into the river.

“No, I’m a bad swimmer!” She squealed.

“The crocodiles will eat you.”

“There are crocodiles?”

“I don’t know… maybe?”

I lifted myself onto the inner-tube. She turned over and I pulled her under my arm. We lay there, cuddling and absorbing the tropical sun. On one side of the distant shore was a herd of water buffalos, and near them several small, dark Laotian children playing near the shore. On the other side, where we came from, were rows of restaurants and bungalows.

“I love Laos,” she said, adjusting her bikini. “It’s so beautiful here.”

“Are you travelling alone?” I asked.

“Yes. I am a translator. I work in China.”

“Cool. How many languages do you speak?”

“Four.”

“Smart girl,” I said, closing my eyes and enjoying the heat. “What else do you do?”

“I play bass guitar, but not very well. I love live music. Do you play?”

The water was moving a little bit faster.

“I play guitar, but I’m not in a band anymore. I’m a writer now. I’m working on my first novel. It’s almost done.”

She smiled. “That’s so awesome. Are you going to write about me?”

I squeezed her arm. “That depends on if I still know you tomorrow.”

We floated in silence for awhile. I looked at her little nose, and her full mouth, her curly auburn hair. She had a cute little gap in her teeth. I leaned in slowly to kiss her, and she accepted it. We both laughed and went back to our meditations.

The inner tube was moving a lot faster.

“Hey,” I said. Looking to the shore. “Maybe we should push back to the bungalows.”

She looked towards the shore. “Ok,” she said.

I slid into the water and started swimming, but my efforts were futile. We continued heading downstream.

“You’re going to have to help me,” I told her.

She sat up. “Yes, but I’m not a very good swimmer.”

“Get in the water. We have to do this now.”

“Ok.”

She fell into the water with a splash, and came up spitting water and laughing.

“Don’t drown on me,” I said. “Now swim.”

We tried to push the inner-tube, but the current was too strong. We moved sideways, but not forwards. I remember the locals telling me there was a waterfall about one kilometer down the river. I looked to the sun and saw it would be setting in about thirty minutes. Fuck. I was having too much fun with this girl. I forgot—Asia can kill you. We could drown, and nobody would know until they found our bodies, crushed and mangled, on the rocks. Monkeys would defecate on us, and eagles would peck out our eyes. Not a bad way to go.

There was a small cluster of mini islands, barely big enough to stand on, which would be impossible anyway because they were covered in thick bamboo. I felt a surge of adrenaline. A feeling I was getting used to in Laos.

“Sasha. See those islands? We’re going to have to swim for them, as hard as you can. You can’t stop swimming. You have to swim as hard as you’ve ever swam! I’m pushing the inner tube. You follow me, ok?”

“Yes,” she said—her eyes wide.

I shoved the inner-tube as far as I could towards the clusters. “Swim!” I yelled, and propelled myself forward with all my strength. The current was very strong. It was about twenty meters to the island and when I reached it, I grabbed onto a bamboo cluster and looked back for Sasha. She was just out of my reach, but almost there. I reached out to her, and with a final stretch, she grabbed my hand. I pulled her up and she latched onto the bamboo. She was out of breath.

“Good job! We’re alive!” I said.

She coughed and rubbed the water from her eyes. She smiled at me.

The sun was dipping below the horizon and the shore was two hundred meters away. I started crawling along the edge of the island and felt a piercing pain on my left knee. I groped along, underneath the surface. There were rocks almost as high as the surface, all sharp. I wondered how far they would extend towards the shore.

Up the river I spotted a Laotian fisherman in a long-tail boat. I stood on the sharp rocks, waved at the fisherman and yelled, “So saday!”

The fisherman waved back, started his motor and drove away.

“What the fuck?”

“What an asshole,” she agreed.

I got back into the water with Sasha. “The sun will be down soon. We have to make it to the shore before that. Are you ok?”

She smiled at me with her cute little gap. I knew she was scared because I was. But isn’t that what makes us feel alive? Fear? The uncertain? Conquering hardship? I leaned closer and kissed her, feeling her ass, her breasts against my chest.

“Ready?” I asked. “Let’s go.”

We began crawling towards the shore, one inch at a time, over the knife-sharp rocks, with nightfall approaching…

And I smiled too.

The End

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Child Soldiers

Chapter 2 -Transmogrification

Chapter 3 - Esther

Chapter 4 - Spirituous

Chapter 5 - Luv

Chapter 6 - Montreal 2008

Chapter 7- Rooftop Combat

Chapter 8 - Misandry

Chapter 9 - Olivia

Chapter 10 - Factotum

Chapter 11 - Confessions

Chapter 12 - Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll

Chapter 13 - The Lair

Chapter 14 - Montana

Chapter 15 - Lara

Chapter 16 - Epiphanies

Chapter 17 - Sarah

Chapter 18 - Orgasms

Chapter 19 - “Good girl?”

Chapter 20 - Abode

Chapter 21 - Penticton

Chapter 22 - Les Trois , Part 1: Carly

Chapter 23 – Les Trois , Part 2: Liz vs. Dianna

Chapter 24 - Blowjobs and Validation

Chapter 25 - Number Three

Chapter 26 - Two down, one to go

Chapter 27 - Vancouver

Chapter 28 - Rickard Yang

Chapter 29 - The Pua

Chapter 30 - Con men of love

Chapter 31- Sand Pussy

Chapter 32 - She’s Married

Chapter 33 - Madonna Whore Complex

Chapter 34 - Frosted Flakes

Chapter 35 - New Year, New Woman

Chapter 36 - Victoria

Chapter 37 - Beauty is Only Skin Deep

Chapter 38 - Montreal, La Deuxième Partie

Epilogue : The Four Thousand Islands, Laos, 2013