The Game

waitresses over, point to your cheek, and say, “Hey, girl, where’s my sugar?” No one is intimidated because you treat them all the same way. In this particular restaurant, there are four waitresses who have come home with me, three less attractive waitresses who want to come home with me, and several more who are works-in-progress (including Stephanie). And you can bet they all know about each other. But, again, that is very good.

    —Zan

The highlight of the seminar was an appearance by two people who would give me my much-coveted inner game and more: Steve P. and Rasputin. These were guys I’d heard whispered about in the seduction community since I’d joined—the true masters; leaders of women, not men.
    The first thing they did when they walked onstage was hypnotize everybody in the room. They both talked at the same time, telling different stories—one to occupy the conscious mind and the other to penetrate to the subconscious. When they woke us up, we had no idea what they had installed in our heads. All we knew was that these were two of the most confident speakers we’d ever seen. Every ounce of fire and charisma that DeAngelo lacked, they possessed in bulk.
    Wearing a leather vest and an Indiana Jones hat, Steve P. was equal parts Hell’s Angel and Native American shaman. Rasputin was a strip club bouncer with mutton-chop sideburns who looked like a steroid-jacked Wolverine. The two had met in a bookstore while both reaching for the same NLP book. Now they worked as a team and were among the most powerful hypnotists in the world. Their advice on seducing women was simply: “Become an expert in how to feel good.”
    Toward that end, Steve P. had figured out a way to get women to pay to have sex with him. For anywhere from several hundred to a thousand dollars, he trained women to have orgasms from a single vocal command; he taught them five different stages of deep throat he had devised; and, most fantastically, he claimed to give hypnotic breast enlargements, which he said could make a woman jump as much as two cup sizes.
    Rasputin’s forte was what he called hypnotic sexual engineering. Sex, he explained, must be viewed as a privilege for the woman, not a favor to you. “If a woman wants to give me a blow job,” he elaborated, “I tell her, ‘You only get three sucks. And you may only go down as far as you receive pleasure.’ “ His chest stuck out like the top of a Volkswagen. “Afterward, I tell her, ‘Didn’t that feel nice? Next time, you get five sucks.’”
    “What if you’re scared of getting caught trying to manipulate her?”asked a businessman in the front row who looked like a miniature Clark Kent.
    “There is no such thing as fear,” Rasputin replied. “Emotions are just energy and motion that you trap inside your body because of a thought.”
    Mini-Clark Kent stared at him stupidly.
    “Do you know how you get over it?” Rasputin looked at his interlocutor like a wrestler about to break a folding chair in half. “You don’t shower or shave for a month, until you smell like a sewer. Then you walk around for two weeks wearing a dress and a goalie mask with a dildo strapped to the front. That’s what I did. And I will never be afraid of public humiliation again.”
    “You have to live in your own reality,” Steve cut in. “I had a girl once tell me I was kind of pudgy. I said, ‘Well, if that’s what you think, you don’t get to pat the Buddha belly or ride the jade stalk.’”
    He paused, then added as an afterthought, “But I said it in a gentle fucking way, on the spiritual fucking path.”
    Afterward, DeAngelo introduced me to the pair. The top of my head came up to Rasputin’s Volkswagen.
    “I’d love to learn more about what you do,” I said.
    “You’re nervous,” Rasputin said.
    “Well, you two are a little intimidating.”
    “Let me get rid of that anxiety,” Steve offered. “Tell me your phone number backward.”
    I started saying, “Five…four…nine…six.” As I did, Steve snapped his fingers.
    “Okay, take a deep breath and now blow out hard,” he commanded.
    As I did, Steve traced his fingers up from my navel and made a whooshing sound. “Be gone!” he commanded. “Now watch that feeling just blow away like a smoke ring on a windy day. Notice how it’s gone; it’s no more. Take a tour of your body and try and find where it was. Notice how there’s a different vibration there. Okay. Open your eyes. Try really hard to