Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Ethics, A Metaphor, and The Judge's Guide to D2s

As the title suggests, I plan on writing a post structuring a fool-proof, 100 percent (so far) effective D2 that will end with a f-close every time. First, however, I intend on writing a few paragraphs on the "ethics" of f-closing on a 1st date (it's probably unnecessary since this is a PUA blog, however listing the reasons might help your frame and inner game). While this entire model fits into my "Master Theory", since I haven't even begun writing that and guys are emailing about D2 advice, I figured I'd write this up ASAP (if you can get a solid D2 than you probably don't need the specifics of the "Master Theory" to f-close, just use this structure and run standard game and you'll f-close). Although, in order to explain the how to approach the D2 (and the "Master Theory") I'm going to offer a metaphor that I believe describes how to view the structure of the D2 and "Master Theory". So, let's begin.

Ethics: As I said before, since we're all PUAs, there's no need for me to tell you that f-closing is your goal on this D2. Over the past few weeks, I perfected this D2 structure (and trust me, working this out was like the early NASA program...I had to sacrifice plenty of gorgeous girls like space monkeys and wreck all kinds of good approaches before I worked out all the kinks!). My PUA friends were all high-fives. My one natural friend (the lone surviving Crusader) was all high-fives. But my AFC friends (notably the ones in LTRs and ones who haven't been laid in a LONG time) started busting on me. Here was our interaction (notably on my birthday!):

(After asking about 3 dates I had in last week and finding out I f-closed all of them)

AFCs: It's cool you're getting laid, but this Pick Up shit only works on sluts. I'd much rather find a girl who isn't willing to bang a guy on a first date. The fact you're out with these girls is scary. You're only attracting whores.

The Judge: Have you ever considered maybe the girls are completely normal, I've just gotten good at seducing them? Most of these girls wouldn't have banged me on a first date a few months ago, but I figured out how to do it.

AFCs: Nah dude, they're whores. See, this is why I don't do this whole Pick Up shit. I'd rather settle down with one good girl rather than have a harem of sluts like you.

The Judge: Yeah, it's such a painful existence. Anyway...(stacks into something non-PU related since trying to explain this stuff to AFCs is impossible - it's simply not in their reality)

Anyway, the reason you simply cannot explain PUA to AFCs is they buy into the "dating frame" hook, line, and sinker. And what does that do for you? It puts you into a female frame. It allows the woman to dictate all the terms of your relationship. Because she can use sex to make you jump through all her hoops, she'll happily withhold sex from the guy, make herself the prize, and use him for validation, entertainment, and free shit (ironically while constantly losing attraction for him). Eventually the guy will either become "just a friend" or a "boyfriend", but never will he be "sexy" or turn her on. When and if she eventually does have sex with him, it will (probably) be more from a feeling of debt than because she really wants to. I know, because I've been that guy before.

So what does a D2 f-close (or same night pull) get you? Aside from the obvious awesomeness, it actually allows you to have a REAL relationship with a woman. I know that sounds strange, but you'll only really get to know the kind of person she is once she knows you're on a equal playing field with her. No matter how much re-framing you do, until you have sex, she's still socially conditioned to at least subconsciously know she still has power over you (because of sex). More on this in the actual D2, but for now, just remember: No matter if you're on a D2 with your future wife or some girl you just want to bone, having sex with her as soon as possibly is crucial. Let's list the reasons:

1.) Even if you never mention being exclusive, women don't want to have sex with lots of guys (with some exceptions) so even if she's letting you see other people, she'll voluntarily take herself out the game and flake off all the other guys who are interested in her.

2.) You're demonstrating you're a high value guy who knows what he wants and is used to getting it.

3.) You're getting laid.

4.) Girls want it just as bad - if not more - as guys and appreciate guys who can excite them without judgment or condescension.

I could probably list about a million more reasons, but I really don't think I need to convince a bunch of hetro guys why getting laid is important. In fact, all this is probably redundant (but I think it's necessary and you should really believe in all these points, not merely trick yourself into believing). But, just to wrap it up, this is NOT to say it's crucial. I'm not advocating rape or pressuring a girl into sex. The ideal D2 situation I'm outlining is where a girl will BEG YOU for sex. If she doesn't want to have sex with you on the D2 it means either 1.) she's into you, but not ready to have sex yet, 2.) she's not into you, 3.) she simply can't have sex on a first date (I don't know if these girls actually exist, but I'm sure they do). In any case, if she's resisting in a IOD way (and you should be well-calibrated enough to tell) JUST DROP IT! Trying to pressure her into sex - or worse, forcing her - is not only completely unethical, but also incredibly needy and unattractive. If she's resisting, just say, "Okay, cool" and devise a game plan from there. But, as I said before, ideally this structure should never place you in that situation. So let's move on...

The Metaphor: Since getting into PUA, I've seen more bad metaphors for gaming than a junior high love poem. Seriously, my stomach cringes every time I hear "PUA is like..." However, I have 1 metaphor that fits my "Master Theory" paradigm and D2 structure perfectly that think is important for your success. So, to be a complete hypocrite: "PUA is like a game of pool."

What do I mean by that? Let's not be abstract. Let me paint a picture for you. When I was in high school, I used to go to track camp every summer. At the end of the week, we'd always have a pool tournament even though we all sucked at pool (our legs were so exhausted by Saturday we couldn't even stand long enough to play whiffle ball...). Anyway, every summer the track camp cook would destroy everyone in the tournament (he was a semi-pro pool shark). Systematically he'd beat every single one of us. But he wasn't a pool god: He'd make mistakes, he'd miss shots. But he'd always win.

Why?

Because he moved with purpose. I don't know how good you guys are at pool but I absolutely suck. I know nothing about it and simply take the most obvious shots or just hit the cue ball wildly, hoping it'll knock something in that'll help me. And this, to me, is how most AFCs and bad PUAs approach dating and pick up. They don't move with purpose. They don't see the angles. They merely fire wildly then get upset or angry when they miss or fuck up. The cook, on the other hand, can miss shots. He can fuck up. He can even stumble a bit. But, since he sees the bigger picture, since he knows he's playing against amateur opponents, since he moves with purpose, he always wins. He never takes a wild shot that might accidently knock in the 8-ball because he doesn't have to. He knows he's going to win and simply enjoys the game.

And that idea of moving with purpose is how you need to approach these D2s. Judging from the emails I get, sometimes I think guys have this image of me that I'm this mPUA who re-frames everything, always has a witty story or great line, and knows what to do in every situation. That is definitely not my reality (I'm not sure if that's even true of the best guru). If you saw me run a PU or on a D2, I make plenty of mistakes. I'm a good storyteller but sometimes my stories BOMB. Sometimes I lose the frame. Sometimes I do something that's ridiculously needy or contradicts my congruency or is just downright stupid. In fact, it's not just sometimes but these things happen fairly regularly. However, since I'm always moving with purpose, I don't get hung up on it. For example, I remember once I told a 5-minute story about a bar pick up attempt my friends I once observed that I thought was hilarious. As I told this story in the most animated way, the HB didn't even crack a smile. When I got to my big punchline and she still just stared at me blankly, rather than say something needy like "Well, I guess you had to be there" or "How do you not find that funny? My friends and I think that shit is hysterical", instead, I pretended I was telling the story to illustrate a philosophical point. I ended on something like, "It's amazing how the typical man brain works. Like why do you think guys' reason like this? What goes through a woman's brain when these types of men approach you at bars?" You see what happened? I took a pool shot and fucked up. But, rather using my next shot to compensate for my fuck up, instead I purposefully assessed the situation and quickly found a new angle. The whole metaphor boils down to one of my cardinal rules of pick up:

Confidence (which sparks female attraction) is communicated less by how you act and more in how you react.

That's why not reacting to AMOGs, passing shit tests, and re-framing HBs' statements spike attraction: You're not acting as much as you're reacting. Anyone can project a scripted performance (acting) but only a true high value PUA can react with confidence.

So, when you're on a D2 and something goes wrong or you feel you're bombing, just remember: You're a PUA. You move with purpose. You're allowed fuck ups, just see the bigger picture. But, now, let's get to the D2...

The D2: Alright, I'm going to outline MY D2, however don't feel you have to get locked into copying the EXACT locations or events. For example, where I bounce her back to my apartment after grocery shopping, you could bounce her back to your car or wherever else you plan to use as your sex location. Essentially, all you need to make this D2 to work is the underlining structure. The locations, activities, and times are completely arbitrary.

Location 1: The Attraction and Comfort phase: The first hour of your D2 should take place here. Ideally, you had her meet you at or near your place (despite what a lot of PUA literature advises, I find it's better not to invite the HB in right away. I usually have girls buzz my apartment and I come down). When you see her, give her a hug, exchange cliche pleasantries, then IMMEDIATELY stack into a story. Just like in phone game, taking the awkwardness of the first 2 minutes off the HB's shoulders is super important in preserving her comfort. For me, I use either the "Grabby Homeless Man" story or I improve a story about something that happened at work that day. For me, the sushi place is 2 blocks away and the story fills in the gap between my apartment and the sushi place.

Once we get to the sushi place and we sit down (By the way, if the hostess says sit where you like make sure YOU chose where you sit. In fact, if she starts sitting down somewhere say, "Sit over here, the view is better"...remember you made the plans, she's in YOUR reality). When the waitress comes over, I ask, "You like beer, right? A round of Sapporo." If she objects, fine (some girls won't drink beer), but most are fine with it. Once the waitress leaves, begin running attraction material.

Again, I'll cover this in the "Master Theory" but you should 10-20 canned stories about your life that you're ready to bust out during dinner. All these stories should communicate various aspects of your personality, where you've been, what you're interested in, what your friends are like, etc. LET HER INTO YOUR REALITY. Also, in between telling these stories, you should be constantly qualifying her and baiting her to tell you interesting things about herself. However, ALWAYS maintain a strong frame (the first half hour is where she's going to shit-test you and try and steal the frame...it's key you constantly remind yourself to act like a guy who has scores of women in his life and she's trying to win you over). Some of my favorite "D2 disqualifiers" are:

  • "That was such a funny response. My little sister would say the same thing! In fact, you sort of remind of my little sis! That's so cute"
  • "What happened to that nice, sweet girl I met at the bar? Who IS this person sitting across from me?"
  • "Hmmmm...I don't know about you, I don't know if this friendship is going to work out..."
  • "You know what, I don't care about that. Tell me about..."

Hold out your hand on the table palm up, and demand "Hand" When she complies, inspect her hand, message it a little, run your nails over her palm, then push it away, "Man hands. It'd never work between us."

The key is constantly push/pull and qualify her. Usually after every neg or IOD I hit her with, I immediately stack into a funny story or something that won't let her respond to what I said. This creates a nice "roller coaster" effect, where she gets upset but then is laughing a few seconds later. Also, the way you should tell stories on your D2 is very animated: SUCK HER INTO YOUR REALITY (can't stress that enough).

When the waitress comes to take your order, ORDER FOR BOTH OF YOU. I found ordering something to share is infinitely better than ordering 2 separate dishes. 1.) It'll save you money, 2.) It's a romantic thing, it'll trigger attraction switches in her brain, 3.) She'll eat less and be more in the mood to get naked than if she'd eaten a huge meal.

Throughout the meal, keep threading between DHV stories, qualifying and baiting statements, push/pull material, re-framing your the prize, and neutral topics. Again, I'll develop all this in the "Master Theory" but talking about neutral topics (general interest stuff) is just as important as telling her the hilarious DHV story about the time you went to Germany for a writing assignment. It allows some space for her to process her emotions and shows you're not trying too hard to entertain her. Some topics of general interest I like to talk about are 1.) Monopoly (the board game), 2.) Gender-related issues, 3.) My idea for a Kevin McCallister home security system, 4.) That guy who found his true love on the New York subway. Get the ball rolling on these topics, spend about 3 minutes discussing them, then interrupt her mid-sentence and stack back into a qualifying question or a DHV story. Example:

HB: Oh my God? A Kevin McCallister home security system? Like from Home Alone? That is too funny!

The Judge: Yo, I had my house burglarized when I was 8. They took a bunch of my shit and I never forgot that. If my dad had installed some swinging paint cans or left some micromachines by the stairs that shit would've never happened...

HB: Hahahaha, oh my God. How did they break into your house? Like did they -

The Judge: Wait, I don't want to talk about that anymore. Okay, if we were going to rob a house together how would we do it? And don't say something stupid or I'm gonna rat you out to the cops before our glorious life of crime even begins...

You've succeeded in phase 1 (which is really the only phase you have to do any real work in) if: 1.) You're in the restaurant for over an hour and she's not looking around or getting restless (also, you finished your meal but the waitress is not bringing the check that's a huge IOI as it's obvious to an outside observer that you and your "date" are having an awesome time and they don't want to interrupt); 2.) she's continually qualifying herself and when you neg her or IOD her she says, "Nooooooooo" or "Stop! Don't think that!"; 3.) She's telling you how funny/entertaining you are.

Oh, and one thing I left out. When she gives you a good answer or is IOIing you it's perfectly fine to give her an IOI, SOI, or compliment (just not on her looks). Here are some I found work great:

  • "You know I'm glad we met. It's cool we got together like this. I'm having fun."
  • "I love that about you! Nice, this friendship may work after all."
  • "Okay, you're cool. High five."
  • "Awww, are you nervous? Don't be nervous, you're doing fine so far. I liked when you were telling me about..."
  • And my all-time favorite (reserved for girls I'm very interested in after they give me an awesome answer qualifying themself): "You know why this is awesome? Because I NEVER meet people like you. I mean, look around, this is Manhattan. There's so many people you could theoretically have sushi with a new person every night. But you know why I'd never do that? Because most people say a lot of shit but never get off their lazy asses and do it. And even more people go through life with no idea what they want or what they're passionate about. When I meet people who aren't like that, like you, I make sure to keep them around. So, we may just have to do this again sometime..."

One and half final points before I bounce you guys to the next location. Point 1: Toward the end of the date, start seeding and hyping 2 things: 1.) Your next location, 2.) Your long-term lock-in prop. The second point only applies to girls you actually want to see again. The first applies to girls you want to f-close. Okay, the next location should be a bar or coffee place, or somewhere that you can talk and get some kino going on. I usually play up the "ultimate white trash" bar down the block from my apartment. Since I make it sound really funny and describe it very vividly, HBs ALWAYS want me to take them there. As for the long-term lock-in prop, if you want to secure a D3 with this girl, start talking about a book or movie (that you own) that you are REALLY passionate about. For me, I usually over-hype my favorite book as this divine entity that if they don't read they'll be incomplete. I seed the sex location as well by saying, "Oh, you want to borrow it? Maybe. It's back at my apartment, if you're good I'll grab it for you later."

Alright, you get the point. Now, Point 1/2: I know all you PUAs are waiting to hear what I say about the check. Just pay it. Usually, HBs will pull out their purses when the check comes. Honestly, if I was really running low on cash and let them pay, I don't think it'd hurt me. However, (and maybe this is still an AFCism left over) I just feel better paying for the first date (also, when they pout about it, I say, "Okay, you can buy me a white trash beer at the white trash bar.")

Location 2: Demonstration of Non-neediness Phase: Phase 2 is simple, but implementing it is critical. So, as we're leaving the sushi place, she thinks we're headed to the white trash bar. Right as we walk out on the street, I go, "Oh shit. I need to pick up some things from the grocery store. Okay, you can come with me and we'll have a little adventure. Come on." (holding out my arm). Once we enter the grocery store, I start walking toward aisle 2 and she always follows. Then I turn around, smile, and say, "Stop stalking me. Go to aisle 1 and pick me out a nice batch of strawberries. And seriously, if they suck, you're fired. Go!" And I playfully push her away.

I usually grab a few things and then come find her in aisle 1. It's funny because every girl I've done this to is always concentrating really hard on the strawberries as if they're life depends on picking the best batch (I take it as a huge IOI). This is a perfect chance to act all "loverly" and sneak up behind her, put your arms around her, and ask how she's doing. I usually like to smell her at compliment her on her perfume. Once she turns around smiling, I quickly push her away, "Come on, let's go. I'm thirsty for some white trash beer" and I walk away from her.

Location 3: Sparking the Sexual Tension: Now, since you have some groceries, you have a reason to bounce her back to your sex location. For me, this is my apartment. So, at this point, she feels really comfortable with me, is giving me tons of IOIs, and I'm starting to escalate my kino. When we get into my apartment, I start putting the groceries away and invite her to, "Look around". (Keep in mind, my apartment is decorated with all kinds of chick crack: From French foreign film posters to my original artwork on the walls to my guitar propped in the corner.) Girls always bombard me with tons of questions which I never answer. Instead, I put my finger over their lips, go "Shhhhhh", pull them into me and kiss them. Usually, the girls get really into it and we start having a little makeout session. I start kissing them a little on their neck and ears, and, once they start getting turned on (after about 2 minutes), I pull away and say, "Come on. White trash bar. I'm thirsty and want to see some mullets." Expect the girl's eyes to go really wide as if saying something like, "What the fuck?" because they've probably never had a guy walk away from them when they were ready to fool around. However, I'm hypothesizing that IF I simply started escalating sexually at this point, I may be able to get her naked and fool around but I doubt she'd bang me at that point. I feel by having the chance to fool around but walking away, you give her the final push she needs to overcome her ASD. When you're ready to pull her, you'll have created all the space you need for a D2 f-close.

Location 4: The foreplay Location: No, the name is deceiving, I don't actually advocate any genital stimulation - even if I did bill location 4 as the sex location. You don't need to do much at this point because the HB will be so turned on, you can literally say ANYTHING. At this point, she should be looking at you with the doggy dinner bowl face, agreeing with everything you're saying, and qualifying herself to you HARD. At this point, I usually just make her work a little harder and frame myself as the prize a few more times, just so she doesn't get buyer's remorse later on. However, two of the biggest traps/shit-tests usually surface at this point.

HB: You are such a player, aren't you?

HB: How many girls have you slept with?

If you answer either of those questions seriously, pack it in brother because you're not getting laid. Honestly, answering a question like "Describe your nastiest shit" would be more attractive than answering either of those questions. Usually I ignore it the first she asks. If she bring it up again, here's how I respond:

HB: You are such a player, admit it.

The Judge: (Smiles) Pa-lease, what would give you that impression?

HB: Because you're a smooth talker and -

The Judge: (Puts finger over her lips) Shhhhhh, I was just starting to really like you and then you went and ruined a moment.

(She'll shut up)

HB: So tell me, how many girls have you slept with?

The Judge: Stop asking, I'm a virgin. You know that.

HB: SHUT UP!! Tell me!! How many? I'll bet it's like a million.

The Judge: A million? Oh my God, you're retarded. That's humanly impossible. Who would have the time to have sex with a million peo-

HB: Ahhhhh! Stop you know what I mean!

The Judge: Okay fine, since you're being so bratty about it, I'll tell you. Is that what you want? Fine. Hold on, let me know do some mental math here....(holds up fingers as if counting) Are we counting just girls or guys and girls...wait, wait, and what about goats? Oh man, and there was that time in Vermont when I had that cow orgy..shit, this is gonna be a hard tally...

HB: Hahahaha, stop!

The Judge: You stop! (Tickles her, starts making out in the bar) Okay, enough with the white trash. I need some classiness. So here's what we're gonna do. I have to be up tomorrow early for work, but let's go back to my place and we'll have a glass of wine and I'll explain the picture/play you that song on the guitar/give you that book I was telling you about.

Location 5: Sex: At this point, it's on. The only final caveat I'll give is I've found the majority of girls I've brought back have said at one point, "We're not having sex though". This is probably the most hilarious statement in the female idiolect because, if she says that, you might as well put a condom on and put a stopwatch on it because you're having sex within the hour. In fact, I got so accustomed to hearing that (usually at the exact same spot, too: As we're climbing the stairs to my walk-up apartment), that on my last D2, I actually beat the HB to the punch and said to her, "Hey, we're not having sex tonight." HILARIOUS! She agreed and then later begged me for sex. I wouldn't recommend using that line the first time you try this D2 structure but try it after a few.

Anyway, I hope this helps and post your results on the blog!


Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Part II: The Later AFC Years

So, I ended Part I of my story at a very pivotal moment: Right before I met Katya.

As I reread Part I over, I realized I omitted a few girlfriends I had in high school who had little significance to the person (or PUA) I am today; however, no one had more influence on my AFC-ness than Katya.

It began after first semester during winter break. Since this isn’t the AFC or “Chicken Noodle for the Soul” blog, I’ll just say we met and started dating. We dated through my freshman year. We dated through my sophomore year. We dated through my junior year, through my senior year, through my first year out in the “real world”.

And, at first, it was fine. We dated, had good sex, conversed in amazing ways. At first, we dated exclusively. Then, when she went to a college across the country (my sophomore year), we had an “open relationship”. On a quick side note, I did hook up with a decent number of girls in college. My identity in college was very alpha (captain of the cross country team, editor of the school paper, celebrity of the literary journal) but I still had no idea how to convey my “attractive identity”; in fact, dating Katya while pursuing other HBs on the side completely ruined my game. I thought treating everyone like a “girlfriend” was a good game plan. Thus, as you all can probably guess, it was only when I reverted to my crusader habits that I actually had sex or hooked up with anyone. And since I usually didn’t want to “fuck it up” with HBs I really liked, this tactic only brought me HB7s and 8s (with some notable exceptions).

Again though, I don’t want to catalogue my history in hookups during college only because it has little relevance in explaining my story in becoming a PUA. Although, there is ONE example I find very pertinent in shaping my philosophy on PUA: Erika.

Even writing her name brings pangs of regret. In fact, Erika had such a regretful influence on my life, I’ll post an excerpt from an early draft of my novel so you get an idea of her “character”.

* * * * *

Erika. Oh Erika, you had dreams. And, these days, I’m a fan of dreams. In fact, I encourage dreams, although back then, not so much. You see, Erika, I met you back in hipper days. Back in senior year, when I kicked around in faded denims and the kids’ sized tees. Remember how I wore those tees like brightly-colored skin? Remember me, Erika? Then? Yeah, back then I had flair – bootleg flair.

As for my expectations, they were something else. They were not so much, not so much flair. I was still under the impression I’d find in a girl what I should’ve been looking for in an early Led Zeppelin song: She’d have been gutter-mouthed, made up in clumpy eyeliner, slender with a strut. I’d never find that girl in you. Or Katya. Or anyone.

So what I got was something else. What I got was you, Erika.

But, at first, it’d been good enough. Hadn’t it, Erika? Good like when Timps took night classes so I’d invite you over to lounge around and drink Starbucks. Somehow, our get-togethers always spiraled into shit talking sessions on your roommates. Maligning those two sourpusses in your bizarre little idiolect was one of your choice activities, something you came to fiend.

“Beasts!” you complained. “Such beasts. Beastly habits, they fiend beastly boys. It’s such a beastly situation.”

I might laugh, take a long sip of a caramel latte, and add, “Do they ever stop watching MTV?”

“No,” you’d snicker.

“Someone should pimp their beastish lives,” I’d yawn. And, oh! it was so cute how you’d turn to me with puckered lips, reaffirm how you fiended me, and we’d make out until my mouth tasted of nonfat vanilla latte sprinkled with chocolate shavings. (A custom even I grew to fiend.)

Good also were the nights I’d trek across the quad to your dorm, climb the stairs to the girls’ floor, plop on your bed, and skim your typo-plagued lab reports for grammar, style, and MLA citation. And you! you’d crouch in between me and the headboard, lean on my shoulder, breathe hot in my ear, and, with every mark I made, you’d flinch.

“But why,” you sniveled (too often).

“Because,” I sometimes answered, turning to face you. “A subordinating conjunction needs a comma, every time,” or, “Dependent clauses can’t just go and be their own sentences, hun.”

Pulling back from me, your glasses would slip down your nose and you’d jut upright, geekishly readjust the them, and scrunch your mouth to the side, giving futile determination a beautiful, tragic face. For you, Erika, that determination was finding a way into medical school – even if you had absolutely no aptitude for the natural sciences.

No Erika, your talents – outside the ER and more important than saving lives – lied in making people believe in bullshit. And, because my existence was pretty much bullshit at that point, you made me believe in myself. Where, Erika, did you learn such a skill? Was it when you were a Miss Teen Connecticut runner up? You never seemed to forget to walk with a dainty swagger; or flash anything less than a gumless, Chiclet white smile; or neglect to greet people with a wave so graceful it was as if a panel of judges were keeping tally on your every move. Erika. Oh Erika. Fit for the satchel you never wore, you remained feisty and quirky, driven and pathetic. Your shampoo-commercial chestnut hair and tiny singsong voice jumped and bounced whenever you got excited – which was all too often.

* * * * *

Ah, Erika. Ah, nostalgia. Anyway, what differentiates Erika from the other HBs I hooked up with in college is one thing: I GREW to like her. I first met Erika with her friend (actually the HB I labeled HB LJBF from the Albany FR) and immediately gravitated toward HB LJBF, running textbook Mystery group theory on Erika. Once I realized it wasn’t happening with HB LJBF, I turned my attention to Erika. At first, she was just some hot, somewhat annoying chick I’d make out with when I was wasted. But, over time, I started to realize I really liked her. Perhaps even more than I “loved” Katya (this was senior year of college). To quote another scene from my novel, maybe this’ll clarify how it “just happened” (what a chick excuse):

* * * * *

And, at first, it’d been good enough. Enough like something dangerous. In my notebooks I wrote: “With the sneakiness of a benign tumor, my feelings grew deep within me. I never suspected a thing until it was too late, until it’d become malevolent, lethal, beyond operating.” And it’s true, Erika. At first, it was your sarcastic snorts. They got stuck in my head in such a way that everything seemed like a sitcom with an over-zealous laugh track. It all seemed funny, but funny on your terms, Erika. Next I found myself calling people beasts, caught myself using fiend erroneously as a transitive verb. By the time I was sprinkling my otherwise-black coffee with chocolate shavings, I knew it was too late. You’d become my half-girlfriend, my amorous overlap, my cancerous tumor.

* * * * *

So, as this “tumor-like love” grew within me, I started changing my approach to Erika from treating her like a sex object to treating her like my failed “girlfriend paradigm”. And, before I could even grow to enjoy Erika’s company as a non-sex object, she dumped me for THE BIGGEST AFC ON THE PLANET (I’m not saying this in a biter way either…trust me, I’ve been fucked over by dudes in the past and none of it really bothers me but this guy was the poster child for AFC behavior, but I digress…)

Anyway, let’s fast forward to after college. Okay, so you’re me after college. You’re 23 years old. You’ve been working at a respectable publishing company for a year and a half. You’re completing your M.A. in Creative Writing at night. You have a solid group of friends. You have what you think is a great girlfriend but she’s in Europe (on a Fulbright scholarship) and Christmas 2006 is approaching. Since you have no game, you are out spending $500 on Christmas gifts for your “great girlfriend.” You’re planning all these fun things for her when she comes home. You’re writing her emails about how excited you are to see her and how much she means to you.

And you’re about to get dumped.

You’re stupid but you’re not so stupid that you don’t see the signs: While you’re writing effusive novellas gushing with neediness, she’s writing back 2 sentences responses about “needing to talk when she gets home.” It’s no surprise your dick’s on the chopping block and you’re about to get kicked to the curb.

Quickly, you scrabble for the female resources you think you have.

There was that hotty (in retrospect a HB9!) who gave you her number on Thanksgiving Eve (in fairness, I didn’t pick her up since she had a crush on me when I was a senior in high school and she was a freshman); there was the cutie who you flirted with in high school and you kept in contact with; there was your exgirlfriend Nicole who put on 20 pounds and seems desperate. You even get a curveball thrown your way when a HB8.5 with an incredible rack from grad school insists you take her number the last day of classes. You are breaking up with your girlfriend of 5 years, but you have options.

So, as the days tick down until Katya’s return, you start making power moves so that when Katya dumps your ass, you won’t completely shatter you into a needy wreck. Presupposing you haven’t already.

Okay, now let’s switch back and you be you and I’ll be me, since I don’t want to attribute the atrocious and awful behavior I’m about to write to anyone but the person who deserves the blame: me. I started with the HB9. I called her, got her on the phone, and made plans with her. I’m thinking, “Awesome, that means I’m gonna get laid!” and buy condoms. The night we’re supposed to meet, she flakes (her “dog got sick”). Damn. “Whatever,” I tell myself, “I have PLENTY of options.” Next, I call HB High School Flirt. We talk on the phone. We vibe. We even meet for a coffee date during my lunch break. I invite her to a concert. She accepts. I buy 2 tickets. I get all dressed up but, when I go to pick her up, she doesn’t show. Later she claimed she fell asleep and forgot to wake up. Then I call up my exgirlfriend (HB Fatty) and invite her out for coffee. When I meet up with her, I realize she’s so overweight and gross, I don’t even want to be seen taking her to the movies, so I take her for a “drive” to look at Christmas lights. When I go to kiss her, she shoots me down (!!). Finally, I pull out my last option: HB Incredible Rack from Grad School.

Her rejection was the hardest. Not because she was the hottest nor the ugliest or because she was the meanest or wasted the most my time or cost me the most money. Her rejection was the hardest because she liked me the most. I had taken 3 writing classes with her, had gotten to know her over 3 semesters, so I had ample opportunity to convey my attractive identity in a non-needy way. In fact, in all these classes, I assumed an alpha role (always participating, people were always kissing my ass about what a great writer I was). She’d been giving me subtle IOIs for months and I figured, “This one is IN THE BAG. No work needed.” So, right before Katya came home, I called up HB Incredible Rack.

And she smelled the stench of desperation and neediness, even over the phone.

Imagine how shaky my voice sounded after coming off the month of female rejection I just catalogued. Imagine how nervous and sad I must’ve sounded when I tried to make plans with her. Imagine all that because I can’t anymore. While I know this conversation took place and I know it was abysmal, my memory’s blocked the specifics of that conversation out. All I remember is we never hung out and she never returned any of my calls afterwards.

Now enter Katya.

She’s home and I’m geared for the worse. However, I’m also desperately hopeful. I’ve been dating this girl for 5 years and a part of me believes she doesn’t want to break up, she’s just forgotten what I mean to her. So, in addition to the Christmas gifts I bought her, I go out and buy a bunch of random, stupid shit for her and her sick grandma. When she gets home, we fight on the phone pretty hard. For a few hours, I actually grew some balls and started giving her ultimatums and maintained a strong frame. She finally agrees to meet the day after Christmas and I trek over with all the dumb shit I bought for her. Aye, again here’s a scene from my novel (there’s some artistic “variation” here, but overall it communicates the emotions of the moment):

* * * * *

I knew I was to be dumped before the formal dumping even began. I knew it when I felt like was living in a sad foreign film. When her plane flew direct from Russia, landed on a soggy runway, and she called me. She called late, after I’d been sleeping for a while, so I answered disoriented.

“I’m home,” she said, almost defiantly.

“Okay,” I agreed. “How was your flight and all?”

“Yeah, it was good. Listen,” she asserted, sounding like she switched the phone to her other ear, “We need to talk.”

I laughed a little. Maybe it was to throw her off, make her think I didn’t see this coming, hope she felt ridiculously militant. “Alright, let’s talk.”

“Come over. Oh, and bring your fucking notebooks.”

10.

I couldn’t find a parking spot on her block, or the next block, so I had to slog through black sheets of rain with a wilt of flowers drooping over my arm. Hair gel I’d applied so meticulously ran in sticky streams down my face and neck. Houses I passed were bedecked in Christmas lights, blinking enthusiastically. But it all seemed more patronizing than festive. And, when I got to her house, the mechanical Santa waving to me from the window really just came off as a downright dick.

Smoothing the creases of my peacoat, I stumbled up her steps, pressed her doorbell. I closed my eyes, blew a deep sigh, and waited. First, the door opened a crack as a wary eye peeped me as if I were a stranger. Then she let me in.

I stepped into the house, which smelled like sawdust, and unbuttoned my coat. My pants were soaked; my socks, swishy; and underwear, that was bunchy. A cold lick of water tricked down my thighs.

She shushed me before I could get out a “hi”. (Her mom was asleep.)

We stood a moment, then, as I tried to give her the flowers, she went to kiss me. With a stutter-step, she didn’t kiss my lips but surprisingly didn’t kiss my cheek either. Somehow, the flowers ended on the floor.

Bending to pick them up, I looked up at her. The lights on her Christmas tree had her face illuminated in flashes of cool Heineken-bottle green. Her hair, once blonde and pony-tail long, now was chopped almost-unattractively short and not dyed or highlighted. She was makeupless, wearing ratty jeans and a baggy cardboard-colored sweatshirt – one she’d bought her mom last Christmas.

I tried to smile.

“Where are the notebooks?” she whispered loud enough so I could pick up the overtones of agitation.

“Dunno,” I hushed back, realizing this excuse was hilariously unacceptable.

(But why should I have told her anything? In four months all she could write me were three e-mails. The first was ostensibly signed “Your friend, Katya”….The second said St. Petersburg was soul-destroying. The third said we had to talk when she got home, signed just “Katya”.)

“Let’s go somewhere,” she said cupping her hands over my ear. “To talk.”

* * * * *

So that was that I thought. We talked and pretty much broke up. But then, as I began in Part I, she magically showed up at my house on my birthday, took me out to dinner, and we hooked up later in my basement! (Honestly, I have no idea what changed her mind. And, in fairness, it was probably because she simply had nothing better to do rather than anything I specifically did.) We continued to hook up until she flew back to Europe. We even reconciled our relationship and for a month, we wrote each other long, gushing emails.

I was pathetically happy.

Then the week before Valentines Day happened. It’s so hilarious how the whole thing snowballed, I think it deserves a paragraph (it also evinces how weak the bonds of our atrocious relationship were at that point). So, Spring Semester last year was my final year in grad school and I had to complete my thesis (which is the novel I’m excepting from lol) and one night I needed to write 20 pages by the next day. Thus, I pulled an all-nighter, went to work all day, came home and crashed on my couch. And right as I’m drifting off to sleep, my phone rings with a European number. I pick up, lash out (from crankiness), and spark what was to become a 5 day war with Katya. Literally, every hour I wasn’t at work or in class, I was spending on the phone to Europe going toe to toe with Katya, culminating in The Valentines Day massacre.

So February 14th rolls around and it’s 4a.m. New York time. I’m in dreamland. In fact, I REMEMBER the dream I was having that night/morning. I was Rocky Balboa, walking to the ring to square off against Apollo, but, instead of ringing a bell to begin the fight, the sound of the bell was the ringer on my cellphone. But here’s the crazy thing: my cell phone actually WAS ringing and knew it could only be one person (since 4a.m. NYC time is noon in Europe…selfish bitch haha).

And oh man! We didn’t just brawl that morning – we FUCKING brawled. To put it in perspective, I dated this girl for 5 years, we spent every holiday together, we had the kind of relationship where we bought each other sibling’s Christmas and birthday gifts, our moms even talked on the phone, but, because of this epic 2 and a half hour fight WE STILL HAVE NOT SAID/WRITTEN/MUTTERED ONE WORD TO EACH OTHER SINCE!!! Insanity! In fact, our fight was so bad, the only thing I could think of doing was going to work that day (if I stayed home, I would’ve just mopped). And thank God I did, because the final chapter of my AFC was about to unfold…

SO, I trek into Manhattan that day even though there had been a horrific blizzard the night before and the city was an absolute mess. I spent the day in a complete haze and simply counted down the minutes until my lunch break so I could scurry off to Starbucks down the block and work on my novel/thesis. When 2:00 finally came, and I ran out of the office, I saw the block of my favorite Starbucks was closed due to the snow, so I had to walk to the Starbucks on 7th Avenue (which I hated because it’s so close to Penn station you NEVER get a seat). But, that day, for whatever reason, I got my coffee and got a seat. (I actually just found a journal entry I made of this encounter, so I’ll excerpt that):

* * * * *

It was Valentines’ Day and I was acting erratically. There’d been an almost-office-closing blizzard the night before and the city was a mess. White snow was already blackening into curbside crust. Muddy snow or snowy mud slipped under my cowboy boots. However, I scoffed at the snow and the crusts and the slippage. I marched down the block, notebook swinging under my arm, to the big Starbucks on 7th. The past couple days my unrelenting misery thrust my creativity into the depths of my imagination to escape memories of Katya. I live in an odd balance where personal calamity illuminates my prose. I’ve come to accept it, use it to narcotize myself. Since Katya and I decided that we were done completely – done speaking, done e-mailing – I’d been burning my lunch hours untangling her memory from our songs, our movies, from my soul. So, when a blast of icy wind needled my face, I stoically endured it and kept my eyes on Starbucks.

I slinked inside, waited for my coffee. After getting it, I walked up to the second level, where there’s crowded seating. I usually consider it a good omen when I weasel my way into a seat. This is a Starbucks in a busy section of Midtown. When I walk up the stairs, I see this girl. I’d always dismissed meaningless clichés like “love at first sight” or “time stood still”; however, there was some sort of meaning in that moment. It seemed to jump out from other moments, like how a musician accents a note. I felt something within me, something deep and private, something I didn’t know was there but I wanted, like suddenly finding a 20 in the pocket of a pair of pants. This girl had dark, creative eyes that hinted at depths beyond the obvious fact that she was gorgeous. Her long brown hair fell on her shoulders in ways astonishing. She was cloaked in a long, stylish jacket and she looked well-dressed even amongst New Yorkers. A woman cleared her garbage across the room and I darted for the open seat. I spread open my notebook, clicked my pen, but the words had stopped. Somewhere my creativity clogged like a stubborn ketchup bottle. I looked at her. She was holding a peeled script, reading quietly and making tiny, graceful hand motions. Watching her lips move and her wrist slink, I was sure it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. I looked back at the empty blue lines of my notebook. They looked lonely. So I filled them, but I inked words to her. You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful. I looked at her again and thought she might’ve been looking back at me. My hand involuntarily scribbled, “You have fabled beauty. (516) 555 7661 BOBBY.” I looked at this message and it stared back at me like something defiant, like how I imagine Victor Frankenstein’s monster looked back at him. It dared me to hand it to her. I took a long, contemplative gulp of coffee and opened a pack of gum with my teeth. I went to sneak another glance at her but a fat woman sat between us, blocking my view of her.

* * * * *

Hmmmm…I don’t why I stopped there in my journal. The best part was when I actually GAVE her the note. Afterwards, I ran out of the Starbucks and I couldn’t stop shaking for 20 minutes when I got into work. I walked over to my friend Sal’s desk and tried to explain to him what happened, but couldn’t get the words out so I wrote it in an email. I saved the email:

* * * * *

Okay, so I'm in the Starbucks on 7th and I see this girl sitting by herself.
Absolutely gorgeous. Brown hair, looks a little artsy but she's reading a
script to herself so I'm assuming she's an actress or something. But, like I
said, I can't stress the hotness of this girl enough. So, rather than write
my thesis, I spent the hour writing and rewriting letters to her. Finally I
wrote "You have fabled beauty. 516 555 7661 BOBBY" Then I rip the note out of
my notebook and convince myself if she looks up when I leave I'll give it to
her. As I'm walking out, we make eye contact, she smiles then looks down at
her coffee. So I go "Happy Valentines day" and try to place the note on her
table (unfortunately I missed, and it fell on the floor). But the last I saw
of her, she was bending over to pick it up! So maybe there's a
chance...hahaha one of the craziest, stupidest things I've ever done...

* * * * *

So, I guess in some ways you can say that was my first cold approach ever. (Literally, I can’t ever recall another time in my entire life where I approached a stranger for anything more than the time or directions.) As I took the train home that sad, dark, slushy Wednesday, I realized I had to do something about my “love life”. I knew the approach with the actress was stupid and ridiculous. But approaching random strangers was my ONLY option, since me and my friends were out of romantic female resources. That night I went home, did some research, found David D’s Double Your Dating ebook bought it and started reading it immediately.

I polished the book off in two days. That Friday, I remember waking up, going into work and excitedly telling my friend Sal all about David D. That book reframed entire perspective of dating and relationships. I never thought you could actually change your luck with women. I always figured there were ladies’ men, losers, and everyone in between. Overall, I’d been happy with my success, but knew if something didn’t change it was going to be a long time before I found another girlfriend (keep in mind the month of rejection I’d just endured). I explained all this to Sal, walked back to my desk, sat down to proof read a manuscript, and before I could start reading, the vibration of my cell phone interrupted me.

The phone call that changed my life.

I looked at the screen and saw it was a number I didn’t recognize. Only one thing shot through my mind. I darted back over to Sal, danced the cell phone in front of him.

“It’s an unrecognized number!” I kept repeating.

“So answer it!”

“I can’t! I can’t! What if it’s HER!”

The vibrations stopped. And I waited. And waited. And waited. Suddenly it vibrated once more. A voicemail! My fingers scrabbled – punching in my pin wrong twice before I calmed down. What I heard both shocked and scared me:

“Ahhhhh, helllooooooooo…ummmmm, Zee Judge if I right. Dis is zee girl that you met on zee Wednesday in zee Starbucks…” and so on. I listened to this female voice with an accent so strong and bad I wasn’t even sure what country she was from (I thought she might’ve been Korean at first). My first impression: Holy shit, I gave my number to a stranger who’s going to prank me relentlessly. She left an epic voicemail telling me she was an actress from Poland shooting a T.V. show in America. At the end she gave me her email (which was her full name), which I quickly Googled. What popped up both amazed and reassured me. Here are some of the pictures from a Google image search:





The girl from Starbucks! So, to make a long story short, I disregarded EVERYTHING from David D.’s book. I was so ecstatic at the thought of dating this gorgeous Polish actress, I didn’t want to risk fucking it up. So I pulled out the AFC handbook and took her to a $200 lunch in Central Park then ice-skating for our first date; to the most expensive sushi place in Manhattan for our second date; our third date was another wallet destroyer. We emailed each other twice a day. We talked on the phone every evening. I constantly kissed her ass, drew her pictures, sent her parts of my novel and told her how she influenced me.

It was needy.

It was pathetic.

And it put me in the friend zone. I remember, leaning to kiss her on our fourth or fifth date (I hadn’t tried before because I didn’t want to make her feel “uncomfortable”) and she turned her head and told me in her tragically beautiful accent, “Ahhh zee Judge, I think of like friend. I like. But I like like friend. Yes?”

No.

That day I once again grew some balls (similar to how I acted when Katya first came home). I walked away from her. I didn’t return her phone calls for a week. I answered her emails in the shortest ways possible. I reread David D. Finally, I agreed to meet with her but acted completely different. I was cocky and funny. I changed my body language. I made jokes about not wanting to talk to her anymore and about hooking me up with her costars.

And it worked. At the end of our ‘date’, she was almost crying. She kept saying how much she liked me and I kept laughing, patting her on the head and reminding her, “We’re just friends.” This frustrated the shit out of her. I told her I had to get back to work. She begged me to stay a little longer. So I said we could have a quick cup of coffee in the Borders by Penn Station, and as we were walking through the door, I grabbed her by her thin waist, spun her around, and she leaned in and kissed me. We started making out in the doorway as people squeezed passed us. As David D. says, “It was ON.”

And you’d think I learn, right? Wrong. Once this happened, we started dating. The expensive dates continued. The marathon phone calls resumed. The novella emails came back. It was like I saw something that worked then decided I still knew better (I think a lot of AFCs go through this). And, sure, this had SOME advantages.

I got to date her for 6 months.

I got to go to Poland with her, meet her family, and go to posh Polish clubs only for celebrities.

I got to have sex with a gorgeous Polish actress.

I got to have, what I then thought was my “dream girl”.

But notice how I began each statement with “I got”. That’s because everything that came out of that relationship, she let me have. She was always the uber prize. I was merely the courtier, the wooer, the chaser. I made all the effort in our relationship. I made all the advances. I woke up every day feeling so lucky to have this girl.

And then one day I didn’t anymore. As everyone can probably guess, we broke up. This was back in August. I remember how dark those days were. I remember I’d just moved into Manhattan, just got a call for an interview for my dream job, just felt like all the pieces had come together. And then my whole world came crumbling because the gorgeous Polish actress didn’t feel the same anymore.

I remember she broke up with me THE NIGHT BEFORE MY INTERVIEW! I woke up devastated, slinked to the interview, but, as I was walking to the HR office my state completely shifted. I simply placed myself in the moment, let the pressure and nervousness I was feeling translate into confidence and energy and nailed the interview. I’d later use this mental state in all my pick ups.

However, like a guy who gets a HB10’s number then goes home to jerk off, I fell out of state on my drive and felt like shit again. I remember I was so excited about how well the interview went, but so upset I couldn’t call Monika and tell her. Instead of spending the night in Manhattan, I drove back to Long Island. It was a Saturday night and I was depressed. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t write. So I flipped on the T.V. (the insane thing is, I NEVER watch t.v…I don’t even have cabled hooked up in my apartment!). I simply wanted the t.v. on so there’d be some voices in the room as I drifted off to a nap. But I couldn’t fall asleep.

Episode 1 of the “Pick Up Artist” was on, the part right before they send the AFCs into the club. I merely wanted to watch to get a laugh then go to sleep.

Little did I know my life was about to change. By the time The PUA was over, I’d begun shedding my AFC skin.

Wow, it was refreshing to write all that! Part III will chronicle my 6 month evolution as a PUA.

Friday, January 4, 2008

Intermission: Why The Judge


This afternoon I was fucking around at work and rather than finish writing the second half of my "history", I did a search on awesome quotes from Cormac McCarthy's great book Blood Meridian. For those who never of Cormac McCarthy, he's the guy who wrote No Country for Old Men. And, if you've seen that movie and thought that hit man Chigrah was a badass, he's got NOTHING on The Judge from Blood Meridian. I'll give you my PUA book review in 2 sentences. Basically The Judge is this complete AMOG who takes a renege troop of soldiers into the unsettled West (the book takes place in the mid-nineteenth century) to massacre and scalp Mexicans and Native Americans (I didn't claim this book was PC). While it's easily the most graphically violent book I've ever read (there are images from that book still etched into my brain that haunt me at night), there are also these beautifully philosophical scenes where The Judge (who's this absurd demonic intellectual) makes these striking observations on the nature of man and violence. I don't think I need to hit you over the head for you to see how the two quotes I selected fit well into the whole PUA paradigm. Anyway, I'd highly recommend that book even as PUA literature (Cormac McCarthy is probably the greatest living American writer...this book will be a classic 100 years from now). Enjoy these two quotes:


Toadvine sat with his boots crossed before the fire. No man can acquaint himself with everthing on this earth, he said.

The judge tilted his great head. The man who believes that the secrets of the world are forever hidden lives in mystery and fear. Superstitiion will drag hiim down. The rain will erode the deeds of his life. But that man who sets himself the task of singling out the thread of order from the tapestry will by the decision alone have taken charge of the world and it is only by such taking charge that he will effect a way to dictate the terms of his own fate.

I dont see what that has to do with catchin birds.

The freedom of birds is an insult to me. I'd have them all in zoos.

That would be a hell of a zoo.

The judge smiled. Yes, he said. Even so.

Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, p. 199


The good book says that he that lives by the sword shall perish by the sword, said the black.

The judge smiled, his face shining with grease. What right man would have it any other way? he said.

The good book does indeed count war an evil, said Irving. Yet there's many a bloody tale of war inside it.

It makes no difference what men think of war, said the judge. War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.

He turned to Brown, from whom he'd heard some whispered slur or demurrer. Ah Davy, he said. It's your own trade we honor here. Why not rather take a small bow. Let each acknowledge each.

My trade?

Certainly.

What is my trade?

War. War is your trade. Is it not?

And it aint yours?

Mine too. Very much so.

What about all them notebooks and bones and stuff?

All other trades are contained in that of war.

Is that why war endures?

No. It endures because young men love it and old men love it in them. Those that fought, those that did not.

That's your notion.

The judge smiled. Men are born for games. Nothing else. Every child knows that play is nobler than work. He knows too that the worth or merit of a game is not inherent in the game itself but rather in the value of that which is put at hazard. Games of chance require a wager to have meaning at all. Games of sport involve the skill and strength of the opponents and the humiliation of defeat and the pride of victory are in themselves sufficient stake because they inhere in the worth of the principals and define them. But trial of chance or tail of worth all games aspire to the condition of war for here that which is wagered swallows up game, player, all.

Suppose two men at cards with nothing to wager save their lives. Who has not heard such a tale? A turn of the card. The whole universe for such a player has labored clanking to this moment which will tell if he is to die at that man's hand or that man at his. What more certain validation of a man's worth could there be? This enhancement of the game to its ultimate state admits no argument concerning the notion of fate. The selection of one man over another is a preference absolute and irrevocable and it is a dull man indeed who could reckon so profound a decision without agency or significance either one. In such games as have for their stake the annihilation of the defeated the decisions are quite clear. This man holding this particular arrangment of cards in his hand is thereby removed from existence. This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game and the authority and the justificaiton. Seen so, war is the truest form of divination. It is the testing of one's will and the will of another within that larger will whichh because it binds them is therefore forced to select. War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god.

Brown studied the judge. You're crazy Holden. Crazy at last.

The judge smiled.


Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, p. 248-50

Thursday, January 3, 2008

The Judge's Story

So, as my birthday winds down and I officially begin life as a 25 year old, I sit in front of my computer a little drunk at 11:31p.m. and plan on writing my bio – from AFC to PUA. I love relating my experiences from the field and helping guys any way I can, but I think this post is important because it’ll give you an idea where I’m coming from and the man behind the ominous appellation: The Judge.

First, you have to understand the importance of this day, it’s significance. Probably at this precise moment exactly 1 year ago, I was making out with my ex-girlfriend for the last time. I remember the thoughts that surged through my head when our lips met in my parent’s basement as “Little Miss Sunshine” droned to no one on the t.v. I remember thinking how lucky I was to have this girl – who I thought was my dream girl – back in my life. I remember how strangely good it felt to once again be in her warmth, to feel her validation. As we kissed slowly and I glanced at her face – illuminated by the glow of the t.v. – I thought she was the beautiful woman in creation.

I now know I was a complete AFC.

But let’s begin at the beginning, before I knew the stigma of those 3 letters…

January 2, 1983: I am born.

And, from my earliest conscious memory, I was obsessed with women. Back then, they were girls – little girls – but I can remember as early as kindergarten my infatuation with girls. Their shape, their smell, their everything. I can still see myself, walking in boy-girl order through the halls of my grammar school, and being the only guy to realize that being sandwiched between two girls was a good thing.

Loving women has always been a part of me.

However, as I grew older, I grew fatter. And weirder. And uglier. But my obsession never ceased. This creates the worst kind of person, the worst kind of man. The sort of boy/man who needs women’s validation yet never receives it. I remember numbing myself to rejection at an early age. I was in 5th grade, handing a note to a girl I thought I was in love with. I remember I asked, “Let’s go on a friendly date.” I remember the girl wrote back, “What’s a friendly date?” I remember my utter happiness that she didn’t flat out say “no.”

I was pathetic.

And it only got worse. For whatever reason, I believed I belonged with the “cool kids”. Despite being overweight, unattractive, and abrasive, I had a sense of entitlement. In a lot of ways, that sense of entitlement never diminished. Now it’s probably a good thing. Back then, with no way of justifying what I was entitled to, it was a bad thing. I was able to penetrate the “cool kid” ranks, but as a clown, as their jester, as a joke. By 6th grade, I was hanging with the cool kids, but I was forever supplicating to them, playing for their enjoyment.

And by junior high, this reached critical mass. Imagine an overweight goofball with acne and a horrible comb over. That was me. Girls dated me, but out of pity or as a joke. I remember my first kiss at the age of 12. It was with a girl I was obsessed with. Crystal. That name is etched into my skull. We “frenched” once and then she was gone. I “frenched” other girls behind dumpsters or at cheesy makeout parties but I never got the “serious action” my friends were privy to. I began to wonder why. I began to understand what to F in AFC really meant.

Then a great thing happened. My parents enrolled me in an all-boy high school in Queens, NYC. Perhaps the advantage of a socially awkward fat kid enrolling in a school for all boys isn’t obvious at first glance. It wasn’t to me either. But it changed my life. It began when I joined track. At first, it was simply to lose weight. I ended up losing 30 pounds in my first month and becoming a standout athlete. Then my social status took hold. The social hierarchy of all-boy schools isn’t like public schools. You aren’t judged by your clothes or your popularity or any other superficial indicator of “coolness” anyone from public school is used to. (Interesting side note: Much of what you’re “judged” on in coed schools is what FEMALES deem important…very similar to how society allows FEMALES to set the standards of dating and sex…) No, in all boy schools you’re cool if you’re a cutthroat athlete, if you’re dominant, if you’re competitive and aggressive. Luckily, I became these things very quickly.

After losing weight and losing my braces, I was actually a fairly attractive guy (I still had the comb over and bad style though). Girls began noticing me and “liking” me. I remember this being a novel thing – for a girl to say she found me attractive.

I noticed the significance of this when I lost a friend I preserved from my grammar school days. He was what you might call a “grammar school natural”. The guy all the girls used to love “back in the day”. But in high school, the tables turned. Something happened where he wasn’t attractive to anyone and I was. He never was able to deal with that. To this day, we still don’t talk. He’s a very jealous person.

However, I still couldn’t land the girls I really wanted. Still that hole within me gapped and the super hotties could smell the stench a mile away. Particularly, there was a girl Samantha. She was even initially attracted to me. I remember I’d wait for her name to pop up on my buddy list on AOL so I could shotgun a message to her. I’d anxiously wait for her response. I thought her compliments and validation would somehow fill the hole within me. Fill in all that time as loser. As I was hoping and imagining she moved on to better, more confident guys.

But then another great thing happened. My cousin – who is a complete Guido and therefore understands style – dragged me to a barbershop. My silly combover was replaced with a stylish shorter hairstyle that better fit my face. Then she took me shopping for new, better fitting clothes. In a matter of days, I looked like a new person.

And it couldn’t have come at a better time. Just as all this was happening, my all-male social group was merging with a group of girls from a Long Island all-girl school. In fact, the harbingers of our group brought back pictures (like recon photos in wartime) of the women of this group. We (about 5 or 6 dudes) perused the pictures perversely – rating the women in the crassest ways. There were fat girls in this group and hotties and in-between girls. But there was only one who stood out as a “perfect 10”. Her name was Dana. She’d be my first real girlfriend. And I wouldn’t get over her for 8 years. Presupposing I already have.

I remember the night we finally met with these girls. There were 5 or 6 of them and 5 or 6 of us. I knew all the guys were set on Dana. I knew the dynamics of all-boy schools was no different than the wild west: man versus man, no holds bars. We were all vying for the ultimate prize: a girl we’d all decided was the hottest chick we’d ever seen.

And I remember my expectations were completely fulfilled the first time I saw her. She was standing in her social group under the streetlamp by a bowling alley. The way the light flecked her blonde hair and perfect skin looked angelic. We all knew beforehand she was “shy” and her body language evinced it. She just sort of stood there, looking unsure of how to handle 6 guys ogling her.

Luckily, I perform my best under pressure.

That night I had the most incredible proto-PUA night in the history of my life. We all ended up going to this tool’s house to hang out. I remember I commandeered all the attention that night. Guys in the group tried to steal my spotlight but couldn’t. My stories were too funny. My wit was too quick. While the other losers were trying to kino Dana as she listened to my stories, I kept plowing and acted disinterested. Later in the night, I offered her my jacket (ultimate lock-in prop). The next day, when her friend IMed me to tell me “Dana likes you”. I literally fell off my computer chair. I thought the hole was finally filled.

I was wrong.

I dated Dana. I even made out with Dana. But it didn’t take long for her to see all those stories and wit were just an act. We dated for 6 months, but, in retrospect, she lost attraction for me after our first month (if that long). I reverted to acting like I thought women wanted: telling her she was the most beautiful person on the planet, buying her things, kissing her ass. I was average. I was frustrated. I was chump.

I quickly dated another super hotty immediately after Dana, but ended up in the “friend zone” a month later as well. But, after a few more failed relationships, a third amazing thing happened.

I met the Crusaders.

I know this sounds absurd now, and writing about it as a 25-year old makes me feel retarded, but the Crusaders were a group of “naturals” who showed me the ropes with women. Literary we were 4 guys who drove around in my mom’s purple minivan and fucked chicks. Our code word for sarging was “crusading” and we did. In one summer, between us we hooked up with 40 women! While we were never systematic about what we did, we simply made our agenda public (“we fuck woman in a purple minivan”) and allowed girls into this reality at their own discretion. As you can imagine, we have a canon of absurd stories from our Crusaders days (roughly my junior and senior of high school) which maybe I’ll post on here (I’ve written them in scenes for my novel).

Though, while I got tons of action with the Crusaders, I never completely kicked my AFC habits. For one, I chased Dana constantly, begging her to “try one more time” (again, I have a canon of hilarious stories of trying to woo her as if I was a horny Wile E. Coyote). I also acted like a little bitch with every girl I didn’t just use for sex or blowjobs.

Ultimately, this led to a resentment of women that brought me to my summer before I left for college. This incidentally was my best summer of sex and random hook ups in my AFC life. Since I no longer cared to even try getting involved with women (since every time I seemed to try, it ended “horribly” or as “just friends”), I treated every woman as a sex object, which was a surprisingly effective approach when you’re in high school and gaming HBs.

But then a horrible thing happened. College. Notably freshman year. After weeks of not hooking up with anyone, I regret to say I lowered my standards. The only time I’ve ever hooked up with beasts and fatties (barring times I was absurdly drunk or passed out) was during this time. The only respectable girl I hooked up with was right before finals when one of the Crusaders came for a “surprise” visit and I made out with a cheerleader. However, even this hook up was ruined when an obese football player threw up on both of us in the backseat of a cab (sort of a fitting metaphor for my entire first semester in college).

Then I met my girlfriend of 5 years.

(Wow, my history is longer than I thought so it’ll have to be “To be continued…”)

Announcements for 1/3/08

What's up guys -

I'm sort of pissed.

I wrote up my whole life history as an AFC to a PUA on my computer last night but my internet connection went down. Hopefully I'll post it tonight (theoretically I'm meeting HB Model tonight, but we'll see as we made plans via text messaging which, to me, is an atrocious way to secure a D2...but I'll cover why I had to do that way in my FR - if there ends up being a FR).

Anyway, I wanted to post this ASAP because I'm sure this going to get taken down shortly. Here is a link to the greatest piece of pick up literature you will ever read:

http://www.scribd.com/doc/920437/TylerDurden-OwenCook-The-Blueprint

That, my friends, is a hacked copy of Tyler's book. I'd recommend clicking the "download" button on the left and DLing it as a Word document since I'm sure this is going to be removed shortly.

The shit you will learn from this book is life-altering. Trust me.

Other than that, my birthday celebration was uneventful in terms of PU. My two AFC friends took me out for beers. I saw a hot 3-set and said I was going to open them but my friends actually begged me not to (one friend is practically married and the other is terrified of ever being rejected by a girl). Anyway, no sets opened last night, just drank beers.

Oh, finally, here's Dave Love Pirate's FR of our sarge:

http://www.nycsargeteam.com/showthread.php?p=184#post184

It's not incredibly detailed but interesting to read none-the-less.

Peace,
The Judge


Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Seduction Database Update

So the site is back up. A slightly different Url:

http://www.seductiondatabase.com/v2

Let me know what you guys think.

Posey