Bootcamp with Jeffy: DAY 1

Glory and Destruction: Jeffy Bootcamp – August 23-25 PART 1

“This isn’t summer camp to pickup girls,” Jeffy said as candlelight flicked over the blonde curls of his mullet. “This is BOOTCAMP.”

His voice pounded me with a sense of finality. Bootcamp had begun. The chode could no longer hide. Until that moment, everything still seemed like Summer Camp to Pickup Girls. Flying across the country, checking in to my hilariously bad hotel, walking the mean San Franciscan streets to the lounge, meeting the other students all seemed fun and summery. Even when Jeffy walked in, dressed in his blue non-woo button down, bootcamp still seemed like a point on a future timeline, an unreality.

“Fucking bootcamp,” Jeffy repeated, then reclined in the tanned leather armchair, letting the moment expand and electrify. I sipped my Corona and felt the sour bite of lime on my tongue. I tasted the air of the shadowy lounge. Candlelight danced over the dark, wooden room as the first crackles of nimbus surged through my body.

Jeffy leaned forward, began explaining what he expected of us as students, as men. He could only bring 7 out of 10 to this bootcamp. If we wanted a 10 out of 10 experience, we were responsible for our weekend, for our success, for our fate. The words Jeffy spoke were like electrons charging a capacitor. I felt like that green dude from Street Fighter who shoots electricity. I felt prepared for unbridled glory.

“There’s a cougarish two set behind us,” Jeffy whispered. I was already standing by the time he said to get up and approach.

Leering over the women and interrupting their conversation, I introduced myself. One giggled, shook my hand and told me her name. When I turned to the other, offering my hand, all I got in return was a scowl as my hand hung, unshook.

“Soooo…,” I continued, turning to the warm girl and began spitting nonsense. She giggled and matched my masculine nonsense with her feminine nonsense. It was on. However, the non-glorious, scowling friend kept interjecting with comments intended to offend and deter me. But it all seemed vaguely humorous and irrelevant. All that mattered was the moment and the feeling. The dawn of nimbus.

“How do you two know each other?” I asked out of habit.

“Friends,” my warm, nonsensical feminine girl perked. “How do you know those guys?” she parroted, pointing to our table, shimmering in the glory of Jeffy and my recently knighted brothers-in-arms.

When I recited the answer Jeffy wanted us to tell when asked this question, bootcamp would get kicked up a gear.

“Actually, this is a bachelor party. Our friend Jeff is the groom-to-be and we’re hunting for his wife. Tonight. At the bar. Once we find her, we’re all flying to Vegas so they can get married, then divorced. This is all so Jeff can change his Facebook status to ‘divorced’.”

Quick Zack Morris timeout. I am going to interrupt this epic bootcamp retelling to call attention to the absolute absurdity of the above paragraph. I hope the utter ridiculousness of employing one of the most sanctimonious and costly social institutions to authenticate the frivolity of a “relationship status” on a social networking internet site deviates enough from the average reader’s reality that you LOL’d or, at the very least, WTF’d at the abovementioned response.

Well, this was not the case for San Franciscan drunk ex-strippers.

Suddenly the previously cold girl came alive and leaned over the table, touching my arm.

“Wait, you guys are having a bachelor party? Do you guys have strippers?”

“Ehhh…no. Well, I mean maybe, if Jeff ends up meeting one at the bar and marrying her…”

“I don’t have my heels with me, but I have my iPod!” cold woman exclaimed. “I used to strip…I’ll give you guys a discount!”

“Umm…yeah, I think we’re all set.”

“No! You guys need a stripper! I will work your friend sooo hard!”

“Hmmmm…interesting. Well, maybe we can all meet up at the club later or –”

“No!” ex-stripper informed me. “We’re not meeting at the club! Wait, do you guys have a hotel room? We can do it there. It’ll only take a half-hour!”

“Yeah, I should probably get back to my friends…”

“Wait,” my warm girl chimed in, “I’LL meet you guys at the club. Give me your number!”

“Okay,” I said, programmed my number into her phone, and walked back to our table.

Smiling, Jeff congratulated me on a solid open. Not wanting to wreck the moment, I neglected to tell him about the whole stripper thing, figuring it was irrelevant.

Jeff got back to detailing how the night would unfold. After about 10 minutes, I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder.

“I want to see BOBBY,” I heard my name, spoken with unswerving certainty by the venomous lips of ex-stripper.

“Ummm…okay,” I said, getting up as if in reaction. Like Tyler said in Blueprint, the weight of a hot girl’s beliefs can seem very heavy.

Hilariously, as she led me like a prisoner back to her table, I heard Jeffy cackle and shout: “Pft! See, if she tried that shit on me, I would’ve been like, NO!”

The ex-stripper sat me in a chair and leaned forward like an interrogator with a spotlight in my face.

“Why don’t you have a stripper?”

“Ehhh…”

“You guys need a stripper. I’m going to strip for you. I’m even going to give you a discount.”

I felt the statements cut through me like gamma rays. She seemed so sure of what she was saying. She seemed so determined to melt me into a puddle of man-mush. This was a woman used to getting her way, used to destroying chody men. My nimbus wasn’t yet strong enough to repel her, I could only repeat: “You should really talk to Jeff.”

“Why should I talk to Jeff?” she snorted.

“Because…he makes the decisions.”

A smile crept over her face. In the candlelight, she looked like an evil temptress, like a sexy comic book villainess who delightedly minces men to their death.

“Yes,” she cooed, “I’ll talk to JEFF.” She spoke his name with oozing contempt. “You just watch! I’ll work your friend JEFF.” At that, she stood up and pranced over to our table.

“Which one’s JEFF?” she demanded.

Jeffy looked riotously ironic: slumped in the tanned leather armchair he half-heartedly raised his hand.

“SO!” the ex-stripper boomed. “It’s your bachelor party? You’re looking to have some FUN?”

“If by fun,” Jeffy grinned, “you mean fucking sluts in the ass than yes.”

The room exploded. The stripper hit Jeff with congruence test after shit test after chode destroyer and Jeff just kept coming back with better and better responses. In the course of 5 minutes, I watched Jeff push her off his lap, stick his hands down her pants (asking if her pockets were “girl pockets”), rub his face in her tits and ask “Mommy?”, tell her he was going to “purchase for her one fine bottle of red wine, and, perhaps some cheese”, all while not flinching a bit and completely owning the frame. I saw mastery firsthand. I saw sex-worthiness. And it looked gloriouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuus.

Eventually we left the lounge, finishing the seminar portion in a hotel room, and then hit the club.

Even though Jeff said just to be friendly, I was ready to explode in the club. I promised myself when I walked through the door, I’d hit the first set in sight like a fucking jackhammer.

The door opened…and…there were only three dudes at the bar and a table with (what we’d later find out were) two transsexuals. Non-glory times.

I ordered a beer and talked to Jeff as more people wandered in. At the time, my thought cycle kept repeating: You’re on bootcamp > You should be in set > You’re choding just talking to Jeff. However, in retrospect, relaxing and settling into the environment calmed my nerves, and, by talking to Jeff, I tuned in to his rhythm and presence, which dialed up my nimbus to state deluxe.

After about 20 minutes, Jeff looked at me, smiling. “Look. There’s a table of people in the back,” he pointed. “Just roll up, be friendly, try to start the party, and I’ll come wing you in a minute.”

“Yes!” I clapped my hands. “Awesome!” I spun and did a strut across the club.

If I could distill and bottle what I experienced for the 10 seconds I moved across the club, I’d have the elusive magic bullet elixir that could get anyone laid. Literally, my skin was surging with electric current; my eyes could silence throbbing music and freeze motion; my voice boomed from a drum in my stomach; the most powerful and primitive aphrodisiac radiated from every pore: NIMBUS. I was no longer under a jurisdiction dictated by the laws of science: my steps were light and ethereal, exempt from the tax of gravity; my brain rearranged the chemistry of my neurotransmitters so that every signaling molecule sang a war anthem of triumph; my biological body transcended its cells and organs and bones to become pure energy, a cloud of party.

I thought I had felt “the nimbus” before. I thought the on nights where everything out of my mouth was gold or I picked up some bitchy model or got a 30-second tongue down were “nimbus nights”. When I tried to explain this to Jeffy later, he perfectly articulated true nimbus, clarifying: “It’s like someone who snorts coke. No one who snorts coke for the first time says, ‘Hmmmm, I think I may be high.’ No! that mother fucker KNOWS he’s high cause he’s like wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!’”

To get all nerd and analytical about it, I realized nimbus (for me) is three equal parts: 1.) the woooo, 2.) core confidence, and 3.) 100 percent belief.

Back in New York, I had the woooo, I’d cultivated the core confidence, but my belief still wasn’t 100 percent. Perhaps I’d thought it was 100 percent, but I realized, as I walked across that club, that 100 percent belief is walking up to a large seated mixed set knowing they were either going to have to accept me as their leader or physically relocate their party. There was no way I was going to slink away a chody failure in front of Jeffy.

Closing in, I started clapping my hands. A toothy smile exploded on my face. I walked up to the harbingers of the group and shouted, “AWESOME!”

Everyone stopped and looked at me, amazed. Nimbus doesn’t put people in spectator mode; it puts them in freeze frame. I repeated “Aweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-someeeeeeeeeeee” until the hottest girl in the group jumped up and shrieked.

She ran up to me like a star-struck groupy. She was hot: blonde, skinny, huge tits, sparkly evening gown deluxe.

“Are you gay?” she chirped, “Are you gay?”

“Am….I….gay?” I repeated in mockery. “Worst. Pickup line. Ever. Get over here.” Boom. Claw. Actually, no. To label the clamp I put on this chickity’s shoulder a ‘claw’ is utterly misleading. The nimbus upgraded the civilian’s claw to The Embrace of Destiny, to The Midas Touch of Fuck.

I walked her away from her friends, talking simply for the sake of feeling the crackling energy of my voice. I paraded her to the dance floor. Pelvic grind times. I asked her name. She responded, “Does it even matter?” We start making out. Boner-inducing tongue down (or, according to the Jeffy Kiss Scale, a ‘Stage 3’).

As we’re making out, I hear Jeffy cackling. I see him trying to snap a picture. In between makeouts, my girl is whispering erotic nothings into my ear. For the first time, I start thinking logically: Do I pull and leave bootcamp after 2 approaches or do I throw away a perfectly good bang session.

My girl swivels to her knees and bites my dick over my jeans. I’m shocked, a little embarrassed, and completely turned-on. She wants to leave. I tell her I need to spend time with Jeff. But it’s me and her tonight. I’ll find her later. She asks me again if I’m sure I’m not gay. I’m sure. I’ll find her later. Me and her. Tonight. We go our separate ways.

When I return to Jeffy, he says, “That’s like when you’re playing pool and you’re breaking but you accidentally hit the ball in. Nice.”

While I was dancing and making out, I didn't realize the club had filled up. Cuties were swarming everywhere. I don't even remember how many girls I opened, but I do remember how many blew me out: 0. At one point, I realized I lost one of my peacocky silver rings and was opening girls with, "Find my ring for me." They obeyed, getting on their hands and knees, but the ring was lost. Oh well, I guess it's symbolic in a way.

I moved through the crowd like a trail of ignited gasoline. Whatever I did, wherever I went a party ensued. I wasn't even opening anymore; I was PARTY STARTING. It was like the instant I faced a group of girls, they magnetized to me - even before I spoke. One particular highlight was a group of Polish girls who flocked me. As I was speaking to them, these chodes kept piping in stupid comments as the girls blocked them out. I figured they were just linger chodes and continued to make the girls shriek and giggle for my own amusement and fun. When I turned to talk to Jeffy, one of the guys tapped me. With his shoulders slouched and a sad look on his face, he mumbled, "Hey man...I just want to let you know...those are our...our girlfriends." If a white flag of defeat could make noise, this is what it would sound like.

"No problem, dude," I boomed, back-slapping him as I surveyed the room. I noticed a chode grinding my girl (blonde evening gown) from behind. I walked toward them with the same impulse I felt as a kid when I played Super Mario and I'd get star power. Sometimes, even if I were past one of those annoying duck guys, I'd still turn Mario around and run him into the duck for the simple reason that I could and it's funny. I decided to ruin this chode's little grind-fest for the simple reason that I could and it seemed funny.

Without saying a word, I walked up to my girl, smiled, and commenced tongue down. Instant chode vaporization. We reconvened with inappropriate and salacious acts on the dance floor. Biting and hair pulling deluxe. Genital stimulation times. A boner for me and a doggy dinner bowl for the lady.

I didn't know what to do, so I went to look for Jeffy. I felt someone grab me from behind and say, "Look. One take-away, you're fine. Two take-aways, you're pushing it. Three take-aways and you're done. This is the second take-away you've done with this chick. One more and it's over."

I turned around and saw a concerned Jeffy. He continued, "You have to pull this girl. Now."

"But..." I stammered. "But...bootcamp just started. I don't want to leave yet. Can I pull her and come back?"

"I didn't say you had to leave. I said you have to pull her."

"How...am I...going to pull her...but not leave..."

I realized the answer simultaneously as Jeffy said, "Bathroom." He seemed to notice my concern and assured me, "If we get kicked out, we'll go somewhere else. Take her to the upstairs bathroom where no one will see. Do it! PULL!"

I've just recently got used to SNLs and feeling comfortable pulling girls out of clubs, so pulling a chick into a bathroom was not only out of my comfort zone, it was out of my reality. But this is why I came on bootcamp. \This is why I was born with a dick.

"Come on," I said, grabbing my girl by the hand. "I want to show you something upstairs."

"I can't," my girl said, "I don't want to leave my friends."

"Yeah," I said then initiated a passionate tongue down. "This is really important. We have to see this magical upstairs area. It transcends glorious...COME!" Hard hand pull and she's giggling and walking up the stairs with me.

When we get up stairs, I walk past the bar toward the hallway with the bathrooms and say, "Oh wow, we gotta check this out. Interesting..."

"Wait, this is just the -" Boom. Push her against the wall, hardcore tongue down. I pull back, checking for compliance. She's smiling seductively.

"Come," I say and try to pull her into the men's room.

"Nooooooooooooooo," she laughs. "I'm not going in the men's room with you!"

"Yeah," I kiss her. "Okay."

We do inappropriate and salacious acts outside the bathroom for about 10 minutes. She does her little swivel down cock-bite move again. Delicious. As I go to lick her neck, I notice a shimmering silhouette standing crossed-armed in the doorframe. Rays of holy light are shinning from his short, golden beard and mullet. I know what I have to do.

"Come," pull toward bathroom.

"Noooooo."

"Okay," more inappropriate and salacious acts.

Five minutes later: "Come," pull toward bathroom.

"Noooooo."

"Okay," more inappropriate and salacious acts.

Ten minutes later: "Come," pull toward bathroom.

BOOM. Pull to the bathroom. Lock the stall. Glorious, X-Rated times.

Pic Jeffy took right before I pulled her into the bathoom

We finish up. She leaves shortly after.

I find Jeff and inform him he's now 27/36. After a laugh and gentleman's high five, he sends me upstairs for more glory.

I bust into the first set I see - two girls - and immediately throw them both in freeze frame. One of the girls actually says, "WOW! You make a GREAT first impression!" (total chodette compliment) As I'm booming self-amusement and spitting nonsense, some chode scampers up and says, "Ohhhh...look at out for this guy. He's a PLAYA. Aren't you the guy who was just hooking up with some girl IN THE BATHROOM???"

Back in New York, I might've ignored this dude or used some elaborate AMOG tactic, but, to be honest, it just seemed vaguely funny and distant to me. My response was simply, "Hahahahahahahahahahahaha...Yeah, that was totally me. Anyway..."

Before I could start talking, the guy started in with the logical questions again: "Why were you doing that? Why do you bring girls in the bathroom? Where are you from that you think this is okay? Who are you here with? Why don't you go find them and leave us alone? This is a private party. Why don't you leave. We don't like playas."

Again, it reminded me of that Edward Norton monologue from Fight Club where he talks about everything seeming distant with the volume turned down after you've experienced fight club. The same holds true with nimbus: the guy was awkward and embarrassing but seemed small and completely non-threatening. So I laughed again, "Hahahahahahahaha...dude, you're funny, man. I want to bring you back to New York with me. I'll pack you in my suitcase."

"Oh, you're from New York? The city or New York state? Why did you come to San Francisco? What are you doing here? What -"

"Ah dude," I blurted. "You're like Inspector Gadget with the questions! Just chill out, this is the club! HAVE FUN!"

Eventually the guy chodes off into the night. I talk to some more babes and find Jeffy. Time to venue change. Time to shift into full creep-mode. The King Leer in me curls his tongue and sneers: "YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhh!"

Out on the street Jeffy gives us new objectives. He grabs me and says, "You're going to push it in this club. You don't give a fuck and it's palpable. I can smell it on you. We're gonna do some Wiredrawn-type shit. You open, you isolate as soon as possible, and you go for the makeout." Full nimbus!

When we get inside, I open some throw-away sets before finding a girl who interests me: A tan cutie who probably works as an accountant or a similar office-related capacity. She's yapping with some rotund fatty. Time for glory.

"AWESOME!" I say, getting the girls' attention. "Aweeeeeeee-sommmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" (My contribution to 'the community' will be my "Awesome Plowing" opener. It involves screaming "AWESOME" at varying cadences until calibrated to reflect your inner-awesome state.)

My tan cutie responds with: "AWESOME!!!!!" Yeah! It's on. I drop my Midas Touch of Fuck on her and tell fatty tan cutie's my new San Fransisco girlfriend. Fatty is flabbergasted. Jeffy comes in to wing me. I pull tan cutie away and parade her around the venue. Fatty is still flabbergasted. Some chode tries to pull tan cutie away from me. But the Midas Touch of Fuck is too strong. Chode removes his hand like it’s been seared on a hot stove.

I take tan cutie to what Jeffy told us is 'the makeout spot'. I go for the tongue down. Tan cutie scolds me: "You don't try to kiss a girl after knowing her for five minutes!"

My reply was simple: "Yes you do."

She laughs and says, "Wow! You're very aggressive...and I like it!" That confirmed and articulated everything I've learned over the course of the evening.

"Cool," I smile, go for the tongue down again and get it. We start moving into a Stage 3 tongue down. Boners away!

Suddenly a hotel chode rolls up and scolds us. He tells us we can't do that and we can't linger in 'the makeout spot'. We find a bed-like thing in the lobby and have a love-struck conversation. We call each other on our cell phones and talk. We figure out the names we will give our children. I go for the makeout, but she turns her head. Hotel chode made her uncomfortable. I plow, go for the makeout a second time.

"Why are you so impatient," tan cutie inquires. "I'm going to fuck you later. Just wait, I'm going to jump you once we're alone."

Epiphany-town. I've never had a girl so matter-of-factly tell me 'we're having sex'. It was almost as if she was annoyed she had to state it out loud, as if this was all implicit and understood by both of us. This is what sex-worthiness looks like. It looks gloriouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuus.

Then disaster struck. Suddenly Fatty from Hell appears in all her rotund misery.

"Your friend Jeff is a liar," she informs me. "I don't like him."

I laugh because this so hilariously laughable.

"I'm a total bitch," she continues. "And I don't like you, either. I'm also a cockblock."

I laugh, but I also sort of want to punch this girl in the face. As if she senses this, she pulls a wad of gum from her mouth and hovers it over my cowboy boots. She starts laughing and says she's going to squish it on my leather boots.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I yell. "Why the fuck are you acting like this?"

"I'm a total bitch," she repeats. I realize, even based on this short interaction, this girl has cracked my top ten list of 'The Most Miserable and Abominable People I've Ever Met'.

I try to ignore her as if she were an AMOG but she keeps grabbing my girl and saying dumb shit like reminding her she's driving her home tonight so she can't go home with me. Then the two of them start doing weird secret girl hand motions, so I get up to leave. Fuck this shit. My girl grabs me and apologizes, asks me to hold on a second. A second becomes five minutes. I'm sitting there like a tool.

Finally I’ve had enough: “Look. Come to my hotel room now. Or I’m going to find my friends.”

“Maybe,” my tan cutie says with a coy smile.

“Cut the maybe bullshit. Yes or no.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” fatty screams. I’ve had enough; I tell tan cutie it was pleasure meeting her. Maybe I’ll text her later. I have to physically restrain myself from slugging fatty.

The rest of the night featured more tongue downs and glory, but nothing very educational so not worth mentioning. Ultimately, we ended up at a diner to debrief and end the most insanely awesome – aweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-someeeee!!! – night of my life.