The Game

her cube was as big as a hotel. What an egomaniac!” So now she thought I was hanging with celebrities and models all the time, even though it actually happened to Papa.
    I also did Tyler Durden’s new stuff about having standards and said, “I’m so sick of dating these chicks who do drugs all the time and have plastic surgery. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love to blow rails off a shitty dive bar toilet tank as much as the next guy, but only once in while! I mean, you’re not like that, are you?” She qualified herself. Then I asked her if she was a good kisser, and we kissed for a while. I stopped it and suggested we go downstairs for a drink.
    In the casino. I started running comfort routines, filling in the empty canvas of my life. I ran Supercuts, Summer of Ripped Abs, Balloons in the Park, Stripper Babysitter, and My Cat Got Laid. They’re all stories from my life and, trust me, the titles are more interesting than the actual content.
    We walked around the casino looking for my friends for a while. Then I told her I was tired and needed to go to sleep, and she should come up and tell me a bedtime story and tuck me in. She asked, “What are we going to do? Bad things? I’ve only known you thirty minutes!”
    I said, “Sheesh! I hope not! I have to wake up early so you better not keep me up! Besides, I have whiskey dick.” This shit is classic; you guys have to use it.
    We got to the room and three bozo co-workers were in there, wasted. I hurriedly pushed them out of the room, suggesting they go gamble. The chick looked at the desk and said, “Someone’s been doing coke here. I can tell. I’m a stripper.”
    I serenaded the stripper. I sang “On the Wings of Love” by Jeffrey Osborne to her. I told her I wanted to cuddle, and we did and just talked for a while. I then told her I wanted to show her a trick. I got on her and initiated tonguedown. I told her, “I wanna lick it,” and took off her pants. No panties. I inspected her for sores, then began the licking. She had a clit piercing, which I’d never encountered before. It clicked on my teeth weirdly. I put the fingers in after five minutes and licked her into submission. Then I said, “Too bad I have whiskey dick!”
    She said, “It looks okay to me,” and I fucked the shit out of her.
    I had never seen real tits this big on a chick that skinny. Oh my fucking God, this was the hottest chick I’ve ever fucked: my first stripper and my first 9. I cuddled and snuggled with her afterward. She expressed shock at my many injuries and scars. I kissed this little-ass, adorable-ass stripper mothafucka tenderly and said, “I’m not an insane maniac. I’m a poser insane maniac. I’m just dealing with the absurdity of existence by shoving absurdity down existence’s throat.”
    She gave me her number and told me to call her.
    I used the My Little Pony opener the next night. (“Hey. Do you guys remember that shit My Little Pony? Yeah, well I was trying to remember, did they have powers? Blah blah.”) By the end of the night, after I got thrown out of the karaoke club, I was just going up to chicks and drunkenly bellowing, “Maaaah lil poneee.” I ended up getting thrown out of another strip club.
    The last thing I remember is sitting up in my bed watching the TV, confused and screaming at nobody, “What the fuck am I watching? Is this The OC? What the fuck is this?” until I realized that it was just an episode of Punk’d where they were pranking The OC cast. Then I passed out.

    —Jlaix

The first time I saw her, she was taking a shit.
    I opened my bathroom door and she was sitting on the toilet.
    “Who are you?” I asked.
    “I’m Gabby.”
    Gabby was friends with Maverick, one of the many junior PUAs who orbited our house and appeared in our living room every weekend uninvited. She had the attitude of a beauty queen but the body of a sack of tomatoes. I took a step back and started to close the door behind me.
    “Hey,” she said, flushing. “This is a nice house. What do you do for work?”
    Those words were an instant dealbreaker. Sarging in Los Angeles, one develops a radar for women who are users. The less tactful among them will ask, within the first few minutes of a conversation, what kind of car you drive or what you do for work or what celebrities in the room you’re friends with in order to determine your social ranking and how useful you might be to them. The more tactful ones don’t have to ask questions: They