People Used To Look Out On

PLAYGROUND AND SAY THAT THE BOYS WERE PLAYING SOCCERAND THE GIRLS WERE DOING NOTHING. BUT THE GIRLS WEREN'T DOING NOTHING — THEY WERE TALKING. THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT THE WORLD TO ONE ANOTHER. AND THEY BECAME VERY EXPERT ABOUT THAT IN A WAY THE BOYS DID NOT.

CAROL GILLIGAN, In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women's Development

Chapteh

Petra was a nineteen-year-old Czech with long chestnut hair, a thin golden-brown model's body, and no more than a dozen words of English in her vocabulary. I met her and her cousin on the island of Hvar in Croatia with a Seattle PUA named Nightlight9. We showed them our magic tricks. They showed us their popcorn. On a piece of paper, we drew a picture with a clock and a time on it to rendezvous that night. They met us and led us by the hand to a small, deserted beach. They took off all their clothes except their panties and tennis shoes, and ran into the water. We followed and made love to them as they chattered away in Czech to each other.

Anya was a whip-smart twenty-two-year-old Croatian who was vacationing with her younger sister. She oozed confidence, sensuality, and good breeding; her sister was the opposite. Nightlight9 and I met them on the beach in the Croatian town of Vodice. That night they slipped away from their parents, and we wandered along the waterfront until we found a docked sailboat. We snuck on board and had sex in the galley. I left twenty euros for the bottle of wine we drank.

Carrie was a nineteen-year-old waitress at Dublin's in Los Angeles. She approached me and complimented me on my dreadlocks; I neglected to tell her I was wearing a Rastafarian wig as a joke. I met her the next day completely bald, but we still ended up in bed together. When I e-mailed her the next day to tell her she'd left her rings at my house, she responded, "I don't wear rings. They're not mine."

Martine was a free-spirited blonde I met in New York, with milky skin, smeared red lipstick, and an iron-on T-shirt. I'd opened so many sets that I can't even remember what I said to her. The next night, we went to a bar. I brought along two other girls so she'd have to work for me. For a second I felt guilty about that. But only a second. In the bar, I asked her how good she was in bed, on a scale of one to ten. In my hotel room, I found out. She was a seven.

Laranya was a JAP in the body of an Indian woman. I'd met her when I was in college and we were both interning at the same weekly newspaper.

She was the hot intern; I was the shy intern. But when I ran into her years later in Los Angeles, Style took her out on the town. The first thing she said when we woke up together was, "I can't believe how much you've changed." Neither could I.

Stacy was a twenty-eight-year-old anorexic I met in Chicago. During a lengthy e-mail correspondence, she seduced me with her intelligence, candor, and poetry. When she finally came to visit, I was disappointed to discover that she was awkward and ineloquent. She probably felt the same way about me. Nonetheless, I brought her directly to my bedroom, and we began to make out. I put a finger inside her and felt a fleshy cord bisecting her vagina like a tennis net. It was her hymen. I told her I didn't want to be the one to take her virginity. That's when I realized that being a PUA sometimes meant saying no.

Yana was an older Russian woman with chiseled features and a great boob job. I met her at a bar in Malibu. She told me it was her birthday but wouldn't say her age. I guessed forty-five, but not out loud. As a present, I told her I'd be her boy toy. She grabbed my butt; I told her I charged extra for that. Two nights later, we had a cocktail and adjourned to my house. She said she didn't put out anymore, that she was looking for something deeper. We had sex that night. We role-played. I was the teacher; she was the naughty schoolgirl. It was her idea.

She was a drunk Asian girl with large breasts, surrounded by three sober Asian girls with small breasts. I can't remember her name. She thought I was gay. We talked for fifteen minutes, then I took her by the hand and led her to the bathroom. We gave each other oral sex and never spoke again. It was overrated.

Jill was an Australian businesswoman a fellow pickup artist set me up with. She had spiky blonde hair, leopard-print pants, and a voracious sexual energy. When she danced—if you could call it that—every man's head turned. We fucked in her BMW, with the top down and our legs out the door. When I asked her when she had first wanted to kiss me, she said, "As soon as I saw you." No woman had ever said that to me before.

Sarah was a forty something casting agent I met at the lounge of the Casa Del Mar hotel in Santa Monica. She looked clean and radiant, like she had stepped out of a shampoo commercial—even in the harsh light of my elevator, where, an hour after meeting, we made love. She kept asking if there were cameras. I couldn't tell if she was afraid of being caught or excited by the possibility. Probably both.

Hea and Randi were girls I met at the club Highlands. Hea was a teeny indie-rocker nerd with a boyfriend. Randi was a cute actress with the most mischievous smile I'd ever seen, and a boyfriend. It took a month to convince Hea to cheat on her boyfriend; it took a day to convince Randi.

Mika was a Japanese girl I met at Jamba Juice. She was an orange dream machine with energy boost. I am an orange dream machine with protein boost. I was intrigued. When we had sex, I discovered that she didn't believe in shaving her pubic hair. The next morning she told me, "I grow my hair out because I donate it to children with cancer." I was astonished: "They wear your pubes on their head?" She replied that she'd been talking about the hair on her head.

Ani was a stripper who worked out two hours a day and was addicted to plastic surgery. She had metallic red hair and lipstick tattooed on to match. After we had sex, she told me, "I have mastered the art of visualization." When I asked her to elaborate, she told me that since men are so visual, she makes sure that everything she does in bed looks hot. But when she developed feelings for me, she discovered that she was no longer able to have sex because the emotions opened wounds from childhood abuse. The visualizations ended.

Maya was a black-haired goth belly dancer I flirted with at one of her performances. When our paths crossed months later, she still remembered me. I invited her over the next night. Her car was in the shop, so I offered to pay for a cab. She was there in a half hour.

Alexis was a clothing store manager who looked like she should have been in an eighties new-wave band. Susanna was a recently divorced designer who wanted to rediscover her sexuality. Doris was a married woman whose sex life had died. Nadia was a librarian who had the skills of a porn star; I guess you can learn a lot from books. All four were the result of an experiment: I tried to concoct the perfect routine for the personals. After several failures, I succeeded. The secret, I learned, was to seem like a selfish prick in the ad, and then be a fascinating, laid-back gentleman on meeting.

Maggie and Linda were sisters; they're no longer talking to each other. Anne was a French girl who didn't speak a word of English. Jessica was a bookworm I met on jury duty. Faryal helped me call a tow truck when my car broke down. Stef was handing out flyers for a strip club on Sunset Boulevard. Susan was a friend's sister. Tanya was a neighbor.

My wish had come true. Women were no longer a challenge. They were a pleasure.

In the months since Mystery's breakdown, I'd turned a new corner in my game. Once I'd gotten the number of a woman, it was easy to meet and have sex with her. In the past, I was too obsessed with trying to get some to actually take a step back, assess the situation, and act appropriately. Now, after a year of accumulating knowledge and experience, I had finally gotten out of my own head. I understood the process of attraction and the signals women gave. I saw the big picture.

When talking to a woman, I could recognize the specific point when she became attracted to me, even if she was acting distant or felt uncomfortable. I knew when to talk and when to shut up; when to push and when to pull; when to tease and when to be sincere; when to kiss and when to say we were moving too fast.

Whatever test, challenge, or objection a woman threw my way, I knew how to respond. When Maya the belly dancer wrote and said, "Thanks for the multiple orgasms. Call and we can discuss when you'll be taking me out for dinner. You owe me for the cab ride, and I feel like being taken out on a real date," I didn't assume she was a bitch or pushy at all. She just trying to get validation for having put out so quickly and testing to see how much she could control me. I didn't even need to think about the response.

"I'll tell you what," I wrote. "I'll pay you back for the cab, like I promised, and then you can take me out to dinner in exchange for all those orgasms." She took me out to dinner.

I saw the matrix.

I was Mystery.

Chapiah

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