The Game

other up in seconds: a hundred tiny details, from dress to body language, combine to create a first impression. Mystery’s task—and now mine—was to fine-tune the details and make PUAs out of these three.
    Exoticoption was cool; in fact, he was trying so hard to be cool that it was going to work against him. Jerry had a great sense of humor but came off on first impression as boring. And Sasha—well, he was badly in need ofrepair. Just socializing was going to be a challenge for him: He looked like a big baby goose with acne.
    This time, it was my turn to go around the table and ask, “What’s your score?” and “What are your sticking points?” and “How many girls would you like to sleep with?”
    Exoticoption, who was twenty, had been with two women. “I have the balls to approach, and I did pull some hons in the past,” he began, draping his left arm casually over a neighboring seat. “But my sticking point is the attract phase. Even when I get vibes that I attract them, I still don’t close.”
    Jerry, who was thirty-three, had been with three women. “I can work coffee shops and most other low-noise environments, but I’m uncomfortable in clubs.”
    And Sasha, who was twenty-two, said he had been with one woman, though we suspected he was exaggerating by one. “I’m into the game because it’s like Dungeons and Dragons. When I learn a neg or a routine, it’s like getting a new spell or a staff that I can’t wait to use.”
    One by one, they placed their fears, and their voice recorders, on the table. My job was to get them into the game. I needed to get what was in my head into theirs.
    The teaching portion of the workshop was easy. All I had to do was keep Mystery on track—he loved the sound of his own voice—and give them material. The challenge was going to be the demonstration part.
    As we spoke, we sent the boys on missions to various tables. We had them open sets, 4 watched their body language and the responses of the women, then gave them feedback:
“You were leaning into the set, which showed neediness. Stand up straight and rock on your back foot as if you might walk away at any moment.”
    “You were making them uncomfortable by hovering over them for so long. You should have sat down and given yourself a time constraint. Say, ‘I can only stay for a couple minutes because I have to rejoin my friends soon.’ This way they won’t worry that you’re going to sit there all night.”
    Sasha did the worst. He fumbled through his openers, stared at his shoes, and lacked even a modicum of confidence. Girls listened to him only out of politeness.
    At the bar, I noticed a delicate black-haired girl and a tall blonde with a perfect fake tan, deep dimples, and hair in Bo Derek braids. They radiated energy and confidence. This was not going to be an easy set. So I gave it to Sasha.
    “Go into the two-set over there,” I instructed him. It didn’t take any game to send guys into sets. “Tell them you’re showing some friends from America around and want suggestions for good clubs to take them to.”
    It was a crash-and-burn mission. Sasha meekly approached them from behind and tried several times to get them to notice him. Once he had their attention, it was a struggle for him to keep it. Like many guys, he didn’t communicate with energy. All those years of insecurity and social ostracism had chased his spirit and joy of life deep within his body. Whenever he opened his mouth, there was no need for anyone to strain to make out his faint mumblings. The message was clear: “I was built to be ignored.”
    “Go in,” Mystery said to me as he watched Sasha flounder with the Bo Derek blonde.
    “What?”
    “Go in. Help him out. Show the boys how it’s done.”
    Fear seizes hold in your chest first. It clamps gently to the top of the heart, like a vice made of rubber. Then you really feel it. Your stomach churns. Your throat closes. And you swallow, desperately trying to avoid the dryness and hoping that when you open your mouth, a confident, clear voice will emerge. Even after all my training, I was terrified.
    Women, by and large, are much more perceptive than men. They can instantly spot insincerity and bullshit. So a great pickup artist must either be congruent with his material—and really believe it—or be a great actor. Anyone talking to a woman while simultaneously worrying about what she thinks of him is going to fail. Anyone caught thinking about getting into a