I'm at the One in Edmonton, and finally the party begins. People begin to pour in as though from nowhere, most of the girls are hot (excepting only the hideously fat girl on the dance floor with the seven-five), and girls are dancing like epilepsy's gone contageous.
I'm a first time club PUA. Perhaps it's strange, but I started with cold-approaches on the street, and that's been working really well for me. I've been at it less than a week. A good dose of rejection recently cramped my style, but with the weekend upon me, I felt it neccessary to flex my pickup muscles and try the club scene.
Yesterday was horrible. I called an 11, a certifiable 11, and was told "My girlfriend is going to France today, so I'm pretty busy all night. But why don't you give me your number and I'll call you in a bit?" So, being a newly rehabilitated AFC, I give her my number and expected a call back in a few days. Instead of going out for coffee, I decided to sarge for a bit, see if I can't number close a few more. The two days previous had provided me four phone numbers on cold approaches, and I was feeling cocky.
I headed down to the LRT, feeling good despite the brush-off. I'd recently picked up a bit of peacock gear - a star that says "Sheriff," a small penguin that flashes red-blue-and-gold, and a necklace with a fish on it that's way too tight for my neck - and I was eager to field-test each piece. While waiting for the train, though, my phone rang. I answered to hear my 11's voice.
HB11: Hi, it's HB11 calling!
Monkey: Hey, wassup?
HB11: Well I don't mean to be presumptuous, but I wanted to let you know that I have a boyfriend and I'm not really looking at seeing other people.
Monkey: (In my best AFC imitation) Oh. Alright.
HB11: But we can talk, if you want.
Monkey: Yeah. Sure...
So feeling the horrible pains of rejection for the first time since starting pickup, I went sarging and sucked the whole night. I ruined a perfect four-set of Danish chicks by failing to institute a time constraint. I killed a four-set of hot chicks at the bar by forgetting my ID when we shifted between bars. Not my greatest night.
So tonight, I told myself, I'd do better.
I went to a club in Edmonton called the One. At first, it was horrible, no one around and no scotch to be found. I went to Filthy McNasty's, which had been hype the night before, and found it at least as dead. So, figuring the bar must have picked up by now, I headed back to the One. Things had indeed picked up. There was a party of some sorts going on, I'm figuring bachelorette, and girls were dancing everywhere. I wanted to bide my time for a bit, find a good set, drink some scotch and enjoy myself. Finally, later into the night, a good set presented itself. A hot blonde with a deep tan, and a luscious little East Indian girl; 9.5 and 8 respectively. I figured that rather than pick a target before approach, I'd guage response, and see how things went from there.
Monkey: Hey, can I get your opinion on something?
HB8: For sure!
HB9.5: I guess...
Monkey: Is it cool for a dude to wear makeup?
HB8: Um... Dark eyeliner!
HB9.5: Yeah. Dark eyeliner.
I tell them I've got a buddy back home getting ragged on for wearing some Calvin Klien Model bullshit with darkened cheeks and eyeshadow and shit. I name him John. The Johns I know would not be impressed, as none of them in fact wear makeup. We discuss it, they decide that I should NOT quash his individuality, and I move on to cube the 8 because the 9.5's reaction has been freakishly distant since I showed up. I can't figure it out; every other set I've played has eaten the whole thing up, but this girl seems really suspicious, and I can't figure out why.
So I cube the 8, and everything goes well. I'm preparing to run Strawberry Fields on the 9.5, just to loosen her up a bit, or maybe just a simple ESP trick. (Pick a number or somesuch). I look up, at her, and she's looking at me like I'm some sort of insane man.
Monkey: You don't look convinced, darling.
HB9.5: I read all of this in a book.
Monkey: Really? That's crazy!
HB9.5: Yeah. Everything you've said since you showed up is right out of that book.
Monkey: Ain't that a thing. What is this mystical book called?
HB9.5: The Game.
girls look at one another, at which point I would normally run a best-friends test...
Monkey: You scare me. You're a strange girl.
HB8: Go try on someone else, though!
The worst part is that she wasn't upset at all, the 8. She was really encouraging, and it seemed like she was disappointed that I was leaving.
I was cockblocked by Style's book, guys. More accurately, I was AMOGed by it. It was bound to happen eventually, but it hurts that it happened to me. I've been in the game less than a week, and already the book that helped get me into it is working directly against me? The hell am I supposed to do about that?
-Monkey
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