But first, a name. Ideally, if the masters of ‘the game’ are anything to go by, it has to be something that makes you cringe every time you hear it. Neil Strauss, for example, became Style. Ugh. The guy who took him under his wing and guided him deep into the seduction community—Eric von Markovik—is Mystery. Ugh. Some of the other names of the main players in the community are: Vision, Papa, Herbal, Rasputin, the Matador of Love…You get the idea. I would like to say it’s one step up from McLovin’, but it’s really pretty much on a par.
So, a name, a name, let me think. What about Despair? No. Bulk? No. Cyst? No, no, no. Think, man. Positive. Romantic. Seductive. OK, what about the Labrador of Love? No? The Toreador of Trim? The Quim Master? Wait. I’ve got it. The Reverend Poon. OK, OK, I’m being foolish. But wait. I’m trying to establish a presence, both online and offline, so why not—it seems so obvious now—why not Presence? Seriously. I reckon I could get away with that. I can see it now…
HB10: So what’s your name, big fella?
Presence: Me? They call me Presence.
HB10: Wow. You’re making me horny.
Presence: Yep. That’s what I do.
OK, now, with the name in place, I need to start working on my game. Of course I’m already doing what I can to improve my physical appearance. The diet is already in full swing and going well, stomach cramps and bad breath aside. Plus, my coccyx is more or less back to normal, and not only have I dispensed with the haemorrhoid cushion, but I’ve even started running round the park which is just minutes from my flat. It’s actually more of a wheezing, lumbering stagger at the moment, but it counts, it’s physical exercise, and my muscles are working for the first time in years.
Also, because making the most of what you’ve got is all important, tomorrow I’m going to have a haircut.
My main concern with The Game and the whole science of the pick-up thing is that a) it seems to be—pardon me if I exaggerate—but it seems to be practised—in the main—by total and utter, vile and contemptible morons, b) you’d have to be a sad and desperate, at least slightly misogynistic moron to even seriously consider it, and c) the only way this would work on any woman is if she happens to be a moron.
But what I don’t want to do is make any snap decisions. I’ve been a victim of prejudice too many times not to know that it sucks, so I’m determined not to be prejudiced against ‘the game’. I’ll try it first, then I’ll be prejudiced.
So what I need to do is actually start talking to women—in real life, I mean. No more of this virtual nonsense. The internet is dead. I need to force myself to talk to as many living, breathing, female strangers as possible in order that the pain of rejection no longer holds any fear for me. That’s what Style did at the beginning. It’s what all PUAs must go through. It is a rite of passage, an initiation, a baptism of fire. I need to get to the point whereby when I approach a woman and open my mouth to speak, my heart isn’t beating like bongos.
So I reckon I’ll be ready by the spring. I’ve marked it on my wall chart. In the first week of April, I’ll be ready to go ‘in-field’. I can’t go now because, frankly, I’m a mess. But the fact is, with just a few weeks’ concentrated dieting (bar the occasional lapse), and just a week of regular exercise, I’ve already lost almost a stone in weight. What this means is that if I manage to keep this up, I will no longer be severely obese come the spring. I’ll merely be obese. And if I continue at this rate, I will have reached my ideal weight by the end of the summer. At that point, however, I’ll have to do something to regulate my diet, otherwise by the time my thirty-second birthday rolls around, I will have completely disappeared.
Joking aside, however, I reckon I’ll have lost enough weight to have the confidence to talk to women in April. And not before. I’ve marked it on my wall chart because if I don’t give myself these hideous, terrifying goals, then I’ll just stop and turn back into a pork pie.
This gives me somewhere in the region of eight weeks to figure out what to say. Thankfully, this is where The Game comes into its own. Ask any PUA—Style, Mystery, Frank ‘Master of the Muffin’ Mackey—and they’ll all tell you, what you need is a stockpile of good ‘openers’. An opener is, as its name suggests, a way of starting a conversation when you approach a ‘target’, or ‘woman’. Which, of course, makes sense. It’s clearly really useful to have something funny or interesting to open with rather than just saying, ‘Hello, what’s your name? What do you do?’, which, on the handful of occasions I’ve attempted social congress, is pretty much all I’ve ever had at my disposal. Unfortunately, the openers recommended by Style et al often smack of either immense cheesiness or downright deception. One example is the very popular ‘Fighting Girls Opener’, created by Neil Strauss, which goes something like this:
PUA: Hey, did you guys see those chicks rumbling on the sidewalk?
Girls: Wh—[Cut them off before they speak.]
PUA: Yeah, there was a gaggle of girls fighting over this guy. I spoke to him when it was over. Turns out his name was Eros. That’s a deal-breaker name right there, Eros. So they were tugging on each other’s hair and suddenly one of the girls’ boobies pops out. Normally I’m well up for eyeing a ripe one, but this was a strangulated, desperate thing, a real saggy-baggy, National Geographic booby…
At which point, if you allow them to respond, you find you’re involved in actual conversation with a woman or women in whom you’re interested, the hardest part is over and you can take it from there. That is, unless phrases like ‘a ripe one’ and ‘saggy-baggy booby’ don’t repulse them utterly and they’re just standing there looking at you, open-mouthed, like you’ve just pooped on their lawn.
I can see, however, how this approach would work, particularly on really dull women, the kind in whom I have absolutely zero interest. So, with that in mind, I’ve devised a slightly darker, spicier version of the Fighting Girls Opener, something for the more discerning lady, which I intend to use when I’m in-field in April. My plan is to approach a saucy woman in the queue at Pret A Manger and say:
Hey, did you see those two old men in the street just now fighting over a dead cat? [Cut her off before she has the chance to call the police.] Yeah, it was wild, honeycow. They must have been in their eighties, and they both had hold of this cat. One had the head and the other was hanging on to the back legs, pulling at it really hard they were, like it was a Tug of War, until eventually, suddenly—SNAP!—the cat’s body just came apart and its guts went flying everywhere. It was like that scene in Trainspotting when Spud’s boozy diarrhoea sprayed all over his girlfriend’s parents at the breakfast table…[Glance down at her breadless sandwich suggestively.] Yeah, so think of a number between one and a thousand—make sure it’s seven.’
I don’t really see how that can fail, especially considering that by the time I get to use it, I will also be dressed to kill, having taken the advice of PUAs the world over, and peacocked myself to the max. ‘Peacocking’ is essentially dressing to get noticed. As Mystery says, ‘Try wearing at least one item of clothing curious-looking enough to get people’s attention.’ Mystery himself favours flying goggles. Some would say this makes him look like a gargantuan ass, but it does have the effect that women notice him and will therefore often approach him and make conversation. Even if it’s just to say, ‘What on earth have you got strapped to your forehead, you gargantuan ass?’, at least it’s a start, and all you