| The Surprise Ending (The Pick-Up Life Chronicles, Week 8 )
. . ., all that is left is me and my wing. Fortunately, that's all we need.
But in order for this to work, we have to tweak our game plan. "Tonight, we push until we can push no further. Either we go in for the kill or else we get rejected from the set." Run til it sells. Call it what you want, but that's the theme for the night.
It's nearing 11:00PM, and there are more than 100 people out the door, watching, waiting. No, this isn't going to work.
Now, I can only follow the advice of my fellow PUAs- always find the bouncers with the list- they will be the ones that can help you out. "Hey, my buddy is visiting the country for the weekend. I'm trying to show him a good time. Is there a quicker way inside?" I ask, as I fill his hands with a wad of folded bills. Make it or break it, right?
And without any hesitation, "Sure, follow me." An expensive night already: this better be worth it.
As he escorts us to the front, I take note of the painstaking look on the peoples' faces waiting in line. God, that must suck.
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Attraction:
We catch our first piece of eye candy: two German girls standing around by themselves. So we try our new opener. "Hey, we're moving in two months, but we can't decide where to go. Should we go to Vegas, Los Angeles, or Miami?"
"You're not moving." she responds with skepticism.
"The thing is, we really are," I reply . . . we really are.
"That's great! Then go to Miami!"
Damn. I had my vote for L.A. But we have to play by the rules and be considerate of the running poll on the night. Fair enough, I'll just open more sets. So I awake the bachlorette party to my right with the same question. Ignoring my question completely, they are not so interested in the opener, but more interested in the charisma behind the young men asking. I quickly build rapport with one of the bridesmaids. And now, I have selected my target for the night.
"How old are you?" she asks bluntly.
"What was that? Los Angeles or Miami?"
"How old are you?" she asks, for the second time.
"37 and a half. But enough with the 21 questions, let's go have some fun on the dance floor."
We dance together for the next ten minutes. "We" meaning myself and the rest of the ten girls in the bachlorette party. Apparently I was to be there boy toy for the night. It is a very special occasion, so who am I to turn down a woman's "last request" before her big wedding day? Am I one to turn down free body shots?
But it's time to get back to my target, and it's time to get into round two of the isolation game. Keep moving forward until rejection, right?
We make our way to the bar area, and I make sure that our drinks are staying afloat.
"How old are you really? Give me your I.D. I have to know."
She told me earlier in the night that she was 29. I’m only 23. Shit. I'm struggling here.
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DHV Routine:
"So you want my driver's license and registration, huh? How about I give you something better?" I ask, striving earnestly to change the topic of conversation.
"Really? Like what?" Her curiosity grows. But curiosity killed the cat- apparently she didn't get the memo.
I pull out a book of matches, light one of them, and hold it up in front of her. "Make a birthday wish!"
She smiles at my cute antic and then blows out the ‘candle’. Things are finally getting back on track. "How many guys have ever given you a free birthday wish?" . . . no response . . ."Exactly!"
"And I already know what you wished for," I continue.
"Is that so?" she asks with a smile.
"It is so. But I'm going to give it to you later."
“Um, okay,” she responds with slight wariness.
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We part ways for some time. About twenty minutes pass and I receive a text message from my wing. “Dude, your girl’s back here and she’s talking to these two guys.”
I’m not too worried about it.
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How to Alpha Male:
The two guys are Colombian. Fortunately, so is my wing. He begins to occupy them with an enticing Espanol (Spanish) conversation, and then introduces me. I actually like these guys. For now, I put the target on the backburner.
As sad as it is, a third wheel tries to step in and play the game; he occupies my target. Damn, she must be popular around this part of Atlanta. But luckily, my wing intervenes once again to save the day.
“Hey, let’s get a picture.” He pulls two more women into the picture. Now it’s two random women, the AFC, and my target. But something is not quite right. “Hold up a sec,” he commands, as he puts his hands on the guy to lightly push him out of the way. He smiles at him and knuckles up to ensure that everything is cool. “This one is for the women only. Perhaps next time.” (A side note: the AFC is friends with Miss Colombia. Imagine the irony. )
Left. Right. Up. Down. He looks all around, but nobody is there to save him from a breath of rejection. So he walks away empty handed. Poor guy; I actually feel bad for him. I have been ‘that guy’.
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And now back to my target.
“By the way, where are you from?” I ask.
“Tampa,” she replies.
“Get the fuck out of here! I will be in Tampa next weekend,” I tell her truthfully. We exchange numbers and she instructs me to give her a call. I’m instructed to follow the instructions carefully. I will do that.
I pull my target back on the dance floor. With more kino escalation, she is ready for her birthday gift. And so, we begin to kiss. She can’t stop smiling.
“You can’t stop smiling!”
“You’re just too cute!”
I’m pretty sure that I know where this night is headed. Unless, of course, she tells me what she is about to tell me.
“How old are you?” Damn, this woman will not just let it go.
“To be honest, I am younger than you,” I respond.
“I know that. But I have a secret to tell you,” she says in a whisper.
Uh oh. This can’t be good. “And that secret would be?” I ask.
“I’m married,” she says, almost disappointed in herself. Not for kissing me, but regret for actually being married. It's like chocolate- eventually we all must give into the sin of our guilty pleasures.
At this moment, my actions serve my thoughts no justice. I suddenly tense up and become apprehensive, but I do not show it. Instead, I put my arm around her and tell her casually, “That’s okay. It’s no big deal.” We talk about it for a few more minutes. She tells me that she doesn’t know why she got married. She wishes she were single, forever.
The obvious two options come to mind: Get her done or get gone. But I need some consultation advice from my wing, so I pardon myself for a few moments and go find him.
“Dude, I gotta tell you something!” The words couldn’t have come out of my mouth any quicker.
“Go ahead,” he says, nearly indifferent.
“She’s married!” I exclaim.
“Okay. Hey, do you want another drink? I’m about to get a round.”
What the fuck.
“Did you not hear what I said?” I am so confused right now.
“Yeah, and so what? That shouldn’t stop you. You’re not doing anything she doesn’t want to do.”
He continues. “I thought you were going to push until rejection. Isn’t that what we decided?”
“I know, but I don’t think I can go through with this.”
To me, this was just some girl. There would be many more to come. But to this woman’s husband, this would symbolize the loss of a wife, of a life partner, of a ‘soul mate’. I couldn’t do it.
“Do what you want, I guess. But you might regret it someday,” he rightfully advises.
I go back to find her. Fuck morality.
We start kissing intensely. Once again, the option rises to the table- Pick-up is a high-stakes game. . .
But I decide against taking her home. The consequences appear to be dire, and I am thinking about it way too much. Sadly, society has burdened me with the weight of my own guilt.
“I’m going to call you when I’m in Tampa next weekend. But I completely understand if you don’t pick up the phone,” I tell her honestly.
“You are the like the nicest guy I have met here. I really want to thank you for being so sweet to me.” Great. I’m the nice guy.
But who knows? Maybe next weekend I won’t play so nice. . .
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CHAT
