A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist

by Tony D

  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.