Her name was "Brianna" and her looks certainly fit the bill for being a fiery former companion. She had short blonde hair, a slim figure and less than subtle implants. We've all met the girl who was hot enough to act crazy every now and then; this was Brianna.
One day, while playing FIFA on Xbox, Jiyan and I were able to see her in action. It was entertaining to say the least.
"She is fucking crazy!" said Dave, after running down the stairs.
Then Brianna entered the room and gave Dave a cold stare, prompting Jiyan and I to sit upright on the couch, in preparation for the show.
"Why don't you just leave?" Dave asked her.
"Just leave? Are you fucking serious?" said an irate Brianna.
"Obviously you're not stable right now, so why don't you just go?" Dave suggested.
"You weren't saying that five minutes ago when you were busting all over my chest!" yelled Brianna.
Jiyan and I also busted ... out ... in laughter, which caused Brianna to crack a smile. This also lightened the overall mood, and Brianna exited without further conflict.
It was now time for Dave and I to commence our mission in the field.
Until this point, I was the most clever person in any group I was ever associated with, but with Dave in the mix, this was no longer so. Most people feel threatened by someone smarter than themselves; not me, I knew it would generate brilliant ideas and only make me better.
One of the first ideas was devising a strategic plan to pick the best possible area to approach girls. So we located the office for Scottsdale's top modeling agency, and took a seat outside the Starbucks next door.
Sunglasses are essential for scouting talent; they provide adequate cover to stare at girls without the unwarranted stigma of doing so. Thanks to Justin's vast supply of designer sunglasses, Dave and I looked quite sharp on our recon mission.
One by one the girls walked out, and one by one I approached them. Each was followed by a review session with Dave.
"What did you say?" Dave asked.
"I told her she was pretty," I responded.
"Like she doesn't already know," suggested Dave.
"Yeah, but girls never get tired of hearing it," I told him.
A lot of guys go with pickup lines when they talk to girls, and every one of these guys is making a mistake. Females are wired to read facial expressions more aptly than males, and whether you know it or not; their bullshit detectors are stronger than we think.
This is why it's best to start the conversation with a relevant and current topic so it doesn't seem rehearsed. Telling the girl she's pretty is another obvious, but powerful tool that will never go out of style. These two bullet points may sound simple, and that's because they are. In baseball, if you are facing a pitcher throwing 95MPH, you aren't thinking about (or rehearsing) your swing. To be a good hitter, you must react naturally to your current environment, and to be a successful pickup artist; you must do the same.
Don't get me wrong, some pick-up lines (the savvy ones) work miracles, but they have to be used at the right time. Using them in the opening line is never a good idea, and when you do use them, it has to be undetectable. This is best served when you subtly steer the conversation in a direction where a girl sets it up for you; which in turn, makes it relevant.
Once the list of new contacts was stocked, we headed back to the house to go over the next crucial, and most difficult, phase of advancing with girls ... how to handle text messaging.
This is a skill I still haven't mastered to this day, but I have picked up a few key proponents to enact. The first is to be exciting and adventurous. Send them a message you think they have never seen before, regardless of how crazy it may seem. Remember, being different is above everything else.
The second is to start your texts with an open-ended message (Credit: Neil Strauss). Instead of saying 'what's up?' or 'how are you doing?' it's better to bait them into responding by making your message consist of two parts, and they don't get the second (most enticing) piece until they respond to the first. 'So I figured out what makes you so attractive' is a good one. Girls love themselves and naturally, they will be interested in what you think their best feature is. You're basically telling them you know exactly why they're beautiful. Sure, they've all been told they're pretty, but how many guys specifically tell them why?
Dave progressed through the next few weeks, which included him dating a 19-year-old Latin girl, but he was still eager for more. He really wanted to kick his game up another notch, so without telling me, he went out and bought a brand new Mazerati.
Unlike most people on his level; you would never be able to tell Dave was successful, even if you happened to see him walking down the street. He wore jeans without labels on the back pockets and his typical shirt was gray without a single stitch or logo. This was until I began forcing him to wear some of my shirts, which made a difference. I suppose he took the same principle into buying the Mazerati; positive results were bound to come.
Without question, a car like his will help seal the deal, but unfortunately most approaches don't occur in a drive-by scenario, so there was still work to do.
There's an annual golf tournament held in Scottsdale every year and although golf is probably the most boring sport to watch, the event (somehow) still attracted thousands of girls.
We walked down the cart path on our way in and I began discussing what I think is the best mindset to have before approaching a girl.
"You know what you should be thinking before you talk to them?" I asked Dave.
"What's that?" Dave replied.
"If you never tried talking to them and you never asked for their number, then the answer would still be no," I advocated.
"Ahhh, solid point," Dave said while nodding his head.
"If you try talking to them, at least you will find out if it could have been a yes. Virtually, you have absolutely nothing to lose," I continued.
"I agree," said Dave.
"And do you know which girls are the easiest to approach?" I asked.
"Who's that?" questioned Dave.
"This may sound crazy, but the best looking ones are most often the easiest to talk to. Do you want to know why?" I queried.
"I'd love to hear this," Dave responded, having not yet bought into my theory.
"Because out of every type of girl, most guys are afraid of talking to the hottest ones. When you see an extremely attractive girl, you never think she's lonely because her outer vibe has years of built-up confidence. But in reality, the inner-vibe is lonely from guys being afraid to approach. If you simply talk to them, you're doing what 95% of guys won't do, and that's a lot more than half of the battle," I ended my sermon, and Dave accepted the concept.
After hours of practice on various targets, we entered a tent for a concert being held once the tournament ended for the day. We ran into two young blondes so I opened, and Dave swooped in. Then I needed to go to the restroom, and I used my time away to test him.
"Your goal is to keep both girls engaged in this conversation with you until I get back," I whispered in Dave's ear.
On my way back in, I was told the tent was at capacity and if it weren't for a small opening between a fence and a pole, I never would have seen if Dave succeeded or not. I re-entered 15 minutes later, and there he was, with both girls on their toes. It's very rewarding to see progress from someone you're teaching, and Dave was becoming a master.
The girl's numbers were procured and we carried on (Dave ended up seeing his target weeks' later).
While the crowd was preparing for the band O.A.R.'s performance, I spotted the most challenging object of desire dancing onstage. Just like Jessica from the PussyCat Lounge, I needed to figure out a way to get close to her. The only way to accomplish this was to get backstage, but we lacked the necessary credentials. Naturally, Dave and I began plotting for a loophole.
I got on my blackberry and researched information on each member of the band. The plan was to act like we were family me
mbers, and being related to the lead singer wouldn't be the most believable backstory, but the drummer might work.
"You can't come back here without a pass," the bulky security guard stated.
"I'm Brad Culos man, Chris Culos's brother...the drummer for O.A.R." †I told him with an air of cockiness, acting like I was offended.
I was hoping the guard valued his job over facing potential backlash for insulting a family member, and I was right because he let us right through.
Now Dave and I were on a small platform, joined solely by family members of the band. We tried to mix in, but it was a tight-knit group and the prospect of being ousted was imminent. My time to talk to the dancer was dwindling down.
"Hey, what's your name?" I asked her.
"Reva," she said, while two guards stepped onto the platform.
"What's your last name?" I demanded, with no time to get her number after our cover was in the midst of being blown.
She quickly blurted it out and then we were whisked away.
This information would normally be rendered useless; if we weren't living in the Facebook era.
However, since we were (and are), it took just a handful of keystrokes before she was in her car and on her way to Dave's.
"So, you're a dancer?" I nervously asked the short but radiant Reva.
"Yeah, I also do promotional videos for people," Reva replied, while I attempted to keep my eyes off her chest.
"I have some baseball memorabilia on a website I own, you should do one for me," I suggested.
"Do you want to do it right now?" she asked.
"Yes. Yes I do." I anxiously told her.
I raced upstairs, snatched Dave's video camera and gathered as much memorabilia as my arms could hold from the closet. After prepping her lines, a most fortunate PR event was officially in production.
She wore a strapped teal tank top and ripped jeans as she stood in front of the fireplace in Dave's kitchen. I was torn between alternate desires of creating a great video and my instinctual longing to sleep with her. I was forced to manage both.
"You're good at this," Kyle announced from the dining room table in the dying moments of the first take.
"Shut the fuck up Kyle! I'm still taping!" I scolded.
The truth is ... I wasn't still taping. There were two guys in the room and one girl; I needed to eliminate him from the equation. Nature was at play, and man has to adapt to his environment. It was raw and primitive, but my actions seemed necessary at the time.
"Oh, I see what you're doing," a flustered but aware Kyle uttered while vacating the room.
I watched him go, with the same look a lion gives his competitors as they vacate the scene of a freshly claimed carcass.
Reva and I carried on; showcasing item after item while I underhandedly injected sexual connotations in each scene. I instructed her on how important it was to mention the 'ball marks' on the barrel of every bat, and made sure to capture an extended shot of her cleavage every time she leaned over to place items on the table.
The goal wasn't to be sexist; I was simply targeting my audience.
After we finished, Reva and I walked upstairs to my room and initially sat down on the edge of the bed. She stood up, stepped in my closet, took her jeans off and replaced them with plaid Burberry pajamas some other girl left behind. Without doubt, it was a bold and blatant move.
A few days later, Dave and I were busy on the prowl at a club called 'The W'.
We stood poolside, poised as we contemplated which of the many gaggle of girls were best suited for an encounter. Then I imposed a transition, our roles would reverse and the task of making first contact would now be up to Dave.
He spotted a group of four and made a swift move on his pick of the litter. Now it was up to me to swoop in and entertain the other three. Dave and I differed in a way; he was actually looking for a girl he liked, and I did this routine so many times it was hard to appear like I was actually interested.
So Dave championed them for the remainder of the night, it was like rooting for an underdog at the end of a marathon. His white tape at the finish line came in the form of his white Mazerati sitting out front in the valet...when every last one of them piled in.
When a runner wins a marathon, it usually comes with a gallant picture of them flailing their arms out wide as they burst through the finish line. Dave's was a mental picture; taken by me, with four girls in the background while he's cracking the biggest smile I had witnessed since the day I met him.
It made me reminisce to our days walking around the supermarket making cold solicitations, scouting out restaurants with the best looking waitresses and leaving the club alone. Now we were improved, grown and fully flourished.
Just a few seconds went by and I was suddenly blessed with another priceless and everlasting mental picture. One of the girls began taking short, choppy steps towards the car, seemingly overcome with excitement, but then it all changed...when she tripped and fell flat on her face. To think, we almost pulled away with a flawless exit.
I took the wheel and peeled off. Then another stark contrast between Dave and myself came to light. I wanted to take them to his place and he wanted to take them home.
This was a tough pill for me to swallow. What was the point of going out if they weren't coming back with us? To make matters worse, they lived 20 minutes away, but the tipping point ultimately came when one of the girls began incessantly screaming in the back seat. I couldn't take it.
"Will you please shut the hell up!?" I asked the girl.
"That's your last straw," Dave said to me, playing the hero and simultaneously enacting his power play.
He also probably wanted her to shut up but I knew what he was doing. First, he showed the girl he was standing up for her (playing the hero) and secondly he was letting them know that I lived under his wings by telling me I was on my last straw. What Dave didn't know, is that I opt out of power plays – even if you're giving me free rent.
"Go fuck yourself Dave! You don't own me! I'll find a place to live, I'm not one of your employees you can boss around!" I lashed out, much to his astonishment.
Our ride home was a silent one, but he didn't end up kicking me out. In fact, I'm pretty sure I had gained his respect. When you're rich, 99% of the people you know will kiss up to you. It was probably refreshing for someone to strike back and voice their unfiltered opinion.
We were back at it a few nights later. Of all the places you could meet four girls wearing classy dresses, and immediately invite over; its kind of hard to believe it was at a gas station.
Drinks were poured and the cards were shuffled. Having a 2:1 girl to guy ratio is a delicacy, their words and actions essentially serve as an interview for which one you should pick. Physical appearance aside, your best bet is to either go with the most outspoken girl of the group or the least. The ones who fall in the middle are usually caretakers or people-pleasers, and they don't make bad decisions for themselves.
I prefer the least outspoken, the one I can influence to rebel against her designated role and eventually entice to come out of her shell. This person doesn't take long to spot either because within minutes; I knew yellow dress was my target.
Dave, on the other hand, elected for the most outspoken and it was a battle, but pink dress came out on top.
"You seem like you're more interesting than you make yourself out to be," I told yellow dress.
This line and the other 20 similar themed provocations to follow were all a part of my plan. I was building a story line, and she was the character who was holding back, a diamond in the rough, who would find her true self by finally opening up. I was about to find out if her character would climax when we entered my bedroom together.
We kissed for a moment and then she jumped on top of me, straddling my hips. Then, the story unfolded.
"You know I'm not going to do anything with you," she said, smiling like her words were cute.
At this stage in our game and after so many suc
cessful nights, my tolerance for noncompliance was at an all-time low.
"Ok, well you can get off my bed now, I'm going to sleep," I informed her, indecently.
"Are you serious? You're an asshole!" she cursed as she stormed away.
As bad as this may sound I have to agree with her.
Private Jet to Tampa
For the first time ever, Justin and BJ were going to face off in the big leagues. Regardless of our differences, Justin invited me to come along; well, it was more like Justin and Chris wanted me to go. I imagine our night in Tucson with "Summer" and her friend influenced their decision.
We weren't flying separate. It was a grand occasion and they wanted to roll in style; so they chartered a private jet.
Four creme colored leather chairs faced opposite directions on each side of the plane, with one extended seat behind them. Justin clutched a bottle of Johnny Walker, Chris broke out a deck of cards and I stared at the built-in screen displaying our exact location on the map.
We drank and gambled while Chris plugged in the extra iPod speakers so he could blast whatever rap music was trending at the time. Then Justin reminded me why I came along for the trip.
"B-rad, I hope you have some girls lined up," said Justin, as Chris turned to me for an answer.
"I'm already one step ahead of you, they'll be at the hotel when we arrive," I confirmed.
It was true; Kendall and her friends would be there. I also texted Liz just to let her know we were on a private jet.
Then I pulled out my camera, and started taking pictures. Chris and Justin initially gave the same reaction most famous/important people give when there's a camera around. That was just their natural instinct so I ignored it, after all, if I spent that much money on a flight; I would want pictures.
In fact, I could tell Chris was thinking the same when he began to consciously and not-so-covertly pose for the remainder of my photo shoot. Then he passed out.
Nighttime turned to daytime and we eventually touched down in Tampa during the early morning hours. Once we stepped off the plane, a black SUV pulled up and a man in a tuxedo-styled suit loaded our bags.
Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike Page 18