The Game

Juggler.”
    “I’m Anastasia.”
    “Hi Anastasia.”
    Her tiny hand felt calloused. Her nails were trimmed short. They were the hands of a worker bee. I needed to investigate fully. I pulled her closer. She came willingly.
    CLICKITY CLOMP, CLICKITY CLOMP, CLICKITY CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP.
    Style entered the scene. His perfume wisped and his Italian fabric rustled. Did he flourish? It felt like he flourished. What was wrong with him? Couldn’t he see I was enjoying an intimate moment with this girl? Was he so focused on some sort of entertainment phase of seduction that he couldn’t see we were beyond that? My moment with this girl evaporated. A growl built deep in my chest.
    “Do I know you?” I asked him.
    “Does anyone truly know anyone?” Style retorted.
    He made me laugh. Damn him to hell—in that moment I hated Style for his mischievous timing but loved him for his way with words. I decided not to bite his face—this day.
    I could tell Style was eager to demonstrate himself in action. I introducedthe two of them. Then something freaky happened. Style’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he became someone else. My best guess as to whom he was channeling was Harry Houdini—a fast-talking Harry Houdini. He performed tricks. He had her punch him in the stomach. He mentioned sleeping on a bed of nails. She was enjoying herself. Her phone number appeared out of thin air. That was good enough for Harry. We left her where I found her.
    There is pride involved in being a pickup artist. It is a challenge. I have performer friends who can explode on stage like samurai and kill five hundred people, but they are afraid to approach a girl in a bar. I don’t blame them. Most audiences are horny to be fucked. They want it hard and deep. But the girl sitting on the barstool is more difficult. She is scarier. She is the five hundred pound gorilla in a little black dress. And she can bust you up, if you let her. But she is also horny to be fucked. We are all horny to be fucked.
    San Francisco was my first group workshop. I had booked six guys. We met up with them at a restaurant near Union Street. Style helped me quickly check their credentials. They were six members in good standing of the community.
    We spent dinner making up conversation starters, such as the pretend-someone-is-a-movie-star opener. On the way back from the restroom, I approached a good-looking middle-aged couple at a nearby table.
    “I hope I am not interrupting,” I said to the woman, “but I just had to tell you that I loved you in that one with the boy and the lighthouse. It made me cry for three days. I stayed up late watching it with my housemate’s cat. He used to be the president.”
    They nodded and smiled amicably. “You…thank…very much,” the woman responded in broken English. “It is great.”
    “Where are you from?” I asked.
    “Czechoslovakia.”
    I gave her a hug and shook the man’s hand. “Welcome to America.”
    Pickup artists are the only real diplomats left in the world.
    I didn’t start out as a pickup artist. I began as a small boy obsessed with taking things apart. I carried a screwdriver everywhere. I had a burning desire to know firsthand how things worked. Toys, bicycles, coffee makers—everything comes apart if you know where the screws are. My dad would go to cut the grass, but the lawnmower would be in pieces. My sister would switch on the television…and nothing. All the vacuum tubes were under my bed. I was much better at taking things apart than putting them back together. My family was reduced to living in the Stone Age.
    Later my research shifted toward understanding people and myself. I became a variety act—juggler, street performer, comedian. It’s the backwater of entertainment, but a great place to learn about human interaction. As a side effect, I became good with women. By my twenty-third birthday, I had slept with only one woman. By my twenty-eighth, I could sleep with as many as I wanted. My approach became subtle and efficient, my game graceful and compact.
    Then I found the community. Although my interest was much broader than just seduction, their dedication to understanding human interaction was like coming home.
    Then I met Style and felt a kinship on an entirely new level. Style listened. Most people don’t listen because they are afraid of what they might hear. Style had no preconceived notions. He was cool with however anyone wanted to be. He didn’t find bitchy girls who had to