This Ain’t Oprah’s Book Club – Part II

I am two “Steps” (out of twelve) into the book I’ve been reading called “The Game.” And to be honest, as someone who’s rarely at a loss for words, I don’t even know where to begin. I promised to get through it and digest it here to spare most of you from having to learn everything about the “secret society of pickup artists” the book’s cover claims to penetrate. [Ed. Note: Isn't calling them "pickup artists" like calling the people who work at Subway "Sandwich Artists"?] So I’ve decided to give you the CliffsNotes version, minus that whole “objectivity” thing. It’s very hard to remain objective when speaking as the hunted about a group of professional hunters.

The book’s author, Neil Strauss, is extremely talented. I have to give him that. He admits that in his work covering bands like Motley Crue and Marilyn Manson, he never seemed to get laid despite his close relationship with, and proximity to, the rich and famous. So when his editor suggested he read something he’d never heard of called “The How-To-Lay-Girls-Guide,” suddenly he became aware of an entire culture of men devoted to perfecting the art of seducing women into casual sexual encounters. As he introduces us to some of the foremost experts within this community (such as the main character, a pud named Mystery) we find that these are not Brad Pitt look-alikes, or even just millionaires that aged well. Most of them are unsuspecting, marginally-attractive guys that understand the way into a woman’s panties is a straight shot through her head. And boy, do they fuck the shit out of these poor girls’ heads before getting anywhere near their vaginas. For example…

The following concept seems sort of obvious, in retrospect. But when I first read about it, I got nauseous thinking about how simply it could be applied and how easily it could (and has) worked on me. It’s called the “neg.” Here is its exact definition as listed in the book’s handy-dandy glossary:

NEG – noun: an ambiguous statement or seemingly accidental insult delivered to a beautiful woman a pickup artist has just met, with the intent of actively demonstrating to her (or her friends) a lack of interest in her. For example: “Those are nice nails; are they real?” 2. Verb: to actively demonstrate a lack of interest in a beautiful woman by making an ambiguous statement, insulting her in a way that appears accidental, or offering constructive criticism.

In context, Mystery teaches his disciples to employ this tactic to make the prettiest girl in the group (also referred to as “the target”) feel self-conscious in a way that will make her strive for the approval of the guy who slighted her. Other examples of negs include “you kinda have man hands,” “you blink a lot,” or my personal favorite: “tell her ‘it’s so cute. Your nose wiggles when you laugh.’ Then get her friends to notice and laugh about it.”

And you wonder why I hate this freaking book?

Now before I go all femi-nazi on you all, allow me to use a phrase I’ve used many times before: you can’t rape the willing. According to Strauss, the power of the pickup artist is his ability to give “women the fantasy they never thought they’d experience.” And I’ve certainly been there before. I just never thought I’ve been led there in such a manipulative way. Now, I realize that perhaps I have. And that’s fine, we ALL play games. Here’s the part that hurts. I think I was played by somebody I really, really cared about. Not The Ex and not Poor Bastard, a guy that came in between who I’m still not ready to talk about much here.

Specifically, one time when we were together, we played the “guess the number game.” I thought of a number and he guessed it. Innocent enough, but when he guessed right we both acted impressed. We even referenced it several times throughout the remainder of our relationship.

Then I get to the following sentence in “Chapter 5” of “Step Two”:

“I showed Elonova an ESP trick Mystery had taught me earlier that evening, in which I guessed a number she was thinking between one and ten (hint: it’s almost always seven) and she clapped her hands together gleefully.”

Oh. My. God. Was I that fucking dumb? Was I that obedient? Was I that predictable? He guessed seven, and I had thought seven. I played right into his stupid hand and actually made something out of the fact that we were so psychically connected.

I didn’t just hate the book anymore, I hated myself when I read that.

Okay, guys play games just like I’ve played games. I can accept that. But to be duped by a guy I had actually convinced myself that I liked? One of the few I’ve ever let anywhere near my heart? NEVER AGAIN. I am now on my guard. Want to guess my number? Nice try, I’ve been there. Want to playfully insult me in front of my friends? Back off buddy, I’m not sleeping with you. Perhaps I’m being overly cautious here, but maybe I’ve just been under-cautious in the past. Post-Project Allie has got a brand new bag. And I’m happy about that, I suppose. Disillusioned….but happy that in the future I won’t readily accept every bullshit line and tactic used on me by dudes that have read this book (or are just inherently good at what it teaches.)

By the way, Mind Fucker, I know you’re a “natural” at this. And when I’m back on the market and able to fool around again I have two words for you: bring it.

Like my friend ZW said, “Ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power. So you’ll come out even…uh, sorta.” Even, perhaps. But never the same.

xo