The Game

talked about survival of the fittest,” Twotimer explained to me as we walked through the museum’s collection of pre-twentieth century art. “In earlier times, this meant that the strong survived. But strength doesn’t help one get ahead in society today. Women breed with seducers, who understand how to trigger, through words and touch, the fantasy parts of the female brain.” There was something artificial and rehearsed about the way he spoke, the way he moved, the way he looked at me. It felt as if he were sucking my soul into his eyes. “So the whole idea of survival of the fittest is an anachronism. As players, we stand at the gate of a new era: the survival of the smoothest.”
    I liked the idea, though unfortunately I was no smoother than I was strong. My voice was fast and choppy, my movements effete, my body language awkward. For me, survival was going to take work.
    “Casanova was one of us,” Twotimer went on. “But we live a better lifestyle.”
    “Well, it probably took a lot more work to seduce a woman back then because of the morals of the day,” I said, trying to contribute something useful.
    “And we have the technology.”
    “You mean NLP?”
    “Not just that. He had to work alone.” He grinned as his gaze bore deeper into my eyes. “We have each other.”
    We lurked through the galleries, gazing at the people gazing at paintings. I watched as Grimble and Twotimer talked to various women. But I was far too scared to approach in front of Ross: It felt like trying to play the cello in front of Yo-Yo Ma. I was afraid he’d criticize everything I did or get upset that I wasn’t using enough of his technology. On the other hand, this was a guy who advised students to get over their fear of approaching by walking up to random women and saying, “Hi, I’m Manny the Martian. What’s your favorite flavor of bowling ball?” So I really didn’t have to worry about looking foolish in front of him. He created fools.
    At the end of the day, Ross had three numbers. Twotimer and Grimble had two each. And I had nothing.
    As we took the train downhill to the museum parking lot, Ross slid into the seat next to me. “Listen,” he said. “I have a seminar coming up in a few months. And I will let you sit in and take it for free.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “I am going to be your guru. Not Mystery. You’ll see that what I am teaching is a hundred times more powerful.”
    I wasn’t sure how to respond. They were competing over me—an AFC.
    “And one more thing,” Ross said. “In exchange, I want you to take me to five—no, six—Hollywood parties, with super-hot babes. I need to widen my horizons.”
    He smiled and asked, “Do we have a deal?” as he rubbed his thumb on his chin. I was sure he was anchoring me.

MY MAN IS SMOOTH LIKE BARRY,
AND HIS VOICE GOT BASS.
A BODY LIKE ARNOLD WITH A
DENZEL FACE…
HE ALWAYS HAS HEAVY
CONVERSATION FOR THE MIND,
WHICH MEANS A LOT TO ME, ‘CAUSE
GOOD MEN ARE HARD TO FIND.

    —S ALT-N -P EPA ,
“Whatta Man”

The best predators don’t lie on the jungle floor with their teeth bared and claws out. The prey is going to avoid them. They approach the prey slowly and harmlessly, win its trust, and then attack.
    At least, that’s what Sin told me. He facetiously called it Sin Method.
    Though Mystery had flown back to Toronto after the workshop, I stayed in touch with Sin. I’d watch as a woman came over to his house for the first time and he’d throw her against the wall by her neck, then release her just before he kissed her, shooting her adrenaline level through the roof with equal parts fear and arousal. Then he’d cook her dinner and never speak a word about it until dessert, when he’d stare at her like a tiger eying its prey and say, in a tone of restrained lust, “You don’t even want to know the things I’m thinking of doing to you right now.” That was generally the point when I’d excuse myself to go home.
    Along with the sneakier Grimble, the more predatory Sin became a faithful wing. But our friendship didn’t last long. One afternoon, after a sarging session at the Beverly Center mall, Sin informed me that he’d enrolled in the Air Force as an officer.
    “The military is a steady paycheck,” he explained as we sat in a mall café. “And I can live wherever I want. I’ve been an unemployed computer programmer for too long.”
    I tried to talk him out of it. Sin was into astral projection, goth rock, S and M, and pickup. He