A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist Read Online Free Page A

was this cute little Bjork looking girl with these giant blue eyes, short-cropped black hair and a small, pretty mouth.
    I’d like to fuck that mouth.
    Dude. Relax.
    She looked real nice, like a best friend’s little sister that you always wanted to fall in love with, and bang (same thing for me). She was flirting her way around the bar so I watched her as I played. I was the lead guitarist and the singer, so in theory I should be able to get the girls, because I’m a cool shit rock star.
    Bands; I always hoped that women would launch themselves at me like sex crazed torpedoes. I was into the idea of groupies. Sometimes there were, but I’d screw it up. They’d just stare at me, and I’d stare back. Then they’d pretend they weren’t curious, and so would I. Usually I would just play my set, get my pats on the back and load my gear. I’d go home and spank it, but it’s all about the music anyway, right? The glory of it all?
    I’ve always loved being on stage. Maybe that’s why I became so good at seducing women; the entire act is a rock and roll show, or your own movie. There’s a reason they called them pickup artists and not pickup scientists.
    Fuck, the, mouth…
    Shhhh !
    I never wanted to be a pickup artist, just to be desired by the ones you look at and go, “damn, she’s amazing.” There’s no perfect body, or perfect laugh, or perfect anything. It’s just something that sets your guts aflame. Some chicks get it right: looks, moves, and mind—we fall for them. Those are the ones that make you stay-put and be a good-boy.
    The better I got with girls, the harder it became to find women like that, so the harder I pursued them, like my astrology sign, Pisces: eternally chasing tail. And once you’ve had the best times of your life with a brilliant, sexy girl, the bar is raised. Those dimes are a real challenge for average guys, frustratingly difficult, but so rewarding—especially when faced with competition from taller, richer, more popular, and handsome men. That’s why game was created, to compete with them, and to teach us what our fathers failed to.
    Large glass walls surrounded the bar, so that passersby could peer inside. It was like a fish tank full of drunks. I was on the stage, and just outside a laughing baby ran away from its mother, into the glass wall. It fell and started wailing. The mother picked it up, gave it a mild scolding, then comforted it, and carried on. I’d just witnessed the loss of innocence—that’s how we learn to fear pain.
    I finished my set and put down my guitar. Little Bjork was standing just to the right of the stage, sneaking glances at me and twisting one toe on the sticky floor. This time I knew what to do…
    Talk to her.
    I said, “Are you drilling a hole to China ?”
    “Ha ha . You guys are really good. I like your shoes.” She pointed at my dirty Chuck Taylors .
    “You can’t have them. They’re mine,” I said.
    “Shut up! I have two pairs at home.”
    I moved aside so the other band could set up their gear.
    “Yeah. I want them, give them to me,” I said. “Where do you live?”
    “They won’t fit you, crazy. You’re funny, what’s your name?” She took a step forward.
    “I’m Sebastian. What’s yours?”
    “Esther.”
    Something amazing was happening. I felt that warm glow deep inside that gently whispers up through your vessel, like a slow opium-boat ride to Laos , and says, you got this buddy—you got this. You’re the Eiffel Tower of Power; you’re James Dean, Martin Luther King, and Santa Claus at the same time. Reach for the stars, grab a planet, devour the inhabitants, and take a nap.
    This is called State, or, The Zone. It likes to hang out with your ego. It takes many forms, and has many voices. It happens when you play guitar, score a goal, break dance, drop a royal flush, or do anything that you’re good-at-and-you-know-it. The vibration is contagious. It’s like a complete circumference, a fucking rocket ship around