by Tony D
“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.