The Game

think of a woman’s interest in me as a fire, and when it starts to die out, it’s time to turn around and stoke it. So, just when the 11 was about to walk away to find someone to talk to, I turned around and delivered a beautiful line: “You know what? When I look at you, I can see exactly what you looked like in middle school. And I’m willing to bet you weren’t so outgoing or popular then.”
    Sure, it was a truism. But she stared at me flabbergasted, wondering how I could possibly know that. To seal the victory, I laid out one last beauty-neutralizing cold-reading routine. “I bet a lot of people think you’re a bitch. But you’re not. You’re actually shy in a lot of ways.”
    She began to give me the doggy dinner-bowl look, as the PUAs call it. It is the look that is the goal of any approach. Her eyes glazed over, her pupils dilated, and she just watched my lips move, entranced and attracted. I noticed, however, that the more interested the 11 became, the more kino the 10 gave me.
    “You’re interesting,” the 10 gushed, pressing her breasts against me. I could see Mystery, Outbreak, and the Matador of Love rooting me on in the background. “We have to hang out with you in L.A.”
    She leaned in and gave me a tight hug. “Hey, that’ll be thirty dollars,” I told her, disentangling myself. “This shit ain’t free.”
    The more you push them away, the more they run toward you. “I love him,” she told her friend. Then she asked if she and her friend could stay with me next time they were in L.A.
    “Sure,” I said. But as the words left my mouth, I realized, too late, that I should have made my hospitality more of a challenge. There’s so much to remember and juggle during a pickup that it is hard to get everything perfect. But no matter. She gave me her phone number, and I gave her mine.
    You may have noticed that I haven’t been referring to these girls by their names. That’s because I never introduce myself during a pickup. As Mystery had taught me at that first workshop, I wait for the woman to introduce herself or ask for my name. That way, I know she’s interested. So, as we exchanged numbers, I received my first real IOIs and learned that the 10 was Rebekah and the 11 was Heather. Now it was time to separate the two of them and see if I could get enough IOIs to kiss-close Heather.
    A guy they knew suddenly showed up and bought three shots—for Heather, Rebekah, and himself. I held out my empty hand and looked around, pretending to be hurt. Heather, who I was slowly realizing was actually a sweet girl beneath that laboriously wrought exterior, took the bait. “Don’t mind him,” she said, pointing to their guy friend. “He’s just rude.”
    As she called the bartender over and ordered me a shot, Rebekah threw her a dirty look. “Remember our rule?” she whined.
    I knew what their rule was: Girls like this love it when guys buy them drinks. But David X had taught me better: Girls don’t respect guys who buy them drinks. A true pickup artist knows never to buy meals, drinks, or gifts for a girl he hasn’t slept with. Dating is for tools.
    “We promised not to buy any drinks on this trip,” Rebekah whined.
    “But you’re not buying a drink for yourself,” I told them. “You’re buying one for me. And I’m different from all the other guys.”
    I’m not really that arrogant, but in the game there are rules. And the rules must be obeyed, because they work.
    Suddenly, Mystery walked toward me and whispered in my ear, “Isolate!”
    “I want to show you something,” I said to Heather, as I took her by the hand. I led her to a nearby booth, sat her down, and performed the ESP experiment. Behind me, I saw Mystery punching his fist into his open hand in slow motion. It was a code: the signal to phase shift, to slow down and move in for the kill.
    I told her about soul-gazing and, with house music and dozens of conversations blaring around us, we stared into each other’s eyes and shared a moment together. In my head, I imagined her as the pudgy middle school student she used to be. If I’d been thinking about how beautiful she really was, I would have been too nervous to sully her with my lips, as I was about to attempt to do.
    I slowly moved my head toward hers.
    “No lips,” she said, quietly.
    I held up my index finger, placed it against her lips, and said, “Shhhh.” Then I kissed her—on the lips.
    It would have been the most beautiful kiss of my life. But