The Game Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Arttists
Yüklə 2,79 Mb. Pdf görüntüsü
|
|
"And do you think that love itself "
It took just one woman to bring Project Hollywood down. By all appearances, Katya was a standard-issue party girl. She liked to drink, dance, have sex, and get high, not necessarily in that order. But Katya—perhaps out of innocence, perhaps out of revenge, perhaps out of true love—would outgame every PUA in the house. All those years of study, all those memorized routines and learned patterns of behavior, all those New Rock platform boots were no match for a woman scorned. When I returned from New York, Mystery had a workshop scheduled in Los Angeles. He was charging fifteen hundred dollars now—and people were paying. He had five students, guaranteeing a healthy profit for a week- end of talking and sarging. Katya's was just one of several numbers he had collected while demonstrating his game during the workshop. He'd met her at a Hollywood bar called Star Shoes. She was very drunk at the time, and quite possibly high. Monday was telephone day at Project Hollywood. Everyone called the numbers they'd collected the previous weekend to see which leads were hot and which had staled. When Mystery made his calls, the only person who picked up the phone was Katya. If Katya hadn't been home and another one of Mystery's numbers had answered instead, all our lives would have been different. Despite our supposed skill, mating is largely a game of chance. Women are at different places in their lives when we meet them. They may be look- ing for a boyfriend, a one-night stand, a husband, or a revenge fuck. Or they may be looking for nothing at all, because they're in a happy relationship or recovering from an emotionally destructive one. Katya was probably looking for a place to live. When Mystery called, Katya couldn't remember having met him. Nonetheless, after a half hour of talk (or comfort-building, as Mystery put it), she agreed to come over. "Dress casual," Mystery told her. "I'll only be able to hang out for an hour or two." 322 Using words like "casual" and "hang out," and the time constraint, were all part of a strategy to make the visit a low-pressure event. It's a much better way to get someone to commit to time with a stranger than AFC-style dinner dating, which can be a painful, drawn-out affair that involves two people who may have nothing in common stuck together for an entire night of awkward conversation. Katya arrived that evening wearing a pink sweatsuit and dragging along a scrappy little terrier named Lily. Both Katya and Lily instantly made themselves at home. The former collapsed into the pillow pit and the latter took a shit on the carpet. Mystery popped out of his room in jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and his hair in a pony tail. "I'm just going to hook my computer up to the projector and show you some movies I made," he told her. "No worries, no troubles," Katya replied in an upbeat Russian accent. She had a button nose that wiggled, puffy cheeks that flared, and blonde hair that bounced to maximize her cuteness. Mystery dimmed the lights and showed her our home movies. They were becoming a popular routine around the house because they allowed us to convey positive qualities about ourselves and our friends without even talking. After movie time, Mystery and Katya massaged each other and made out. On their second meeting, three days later, after much LMR, they closed the deal. "I'm moving out of my apartment," she told Mystery afterward. "So is it okay if Lily stays here while I go to Las Vegas this weekend?" Leaving Lily at the house was a cunning tactic because, while Katya was gone, we all grew attached to the cheery, lovable dog—and, by extension, to its owner as well. Their personalities were similar: They were both bouncy and energetic and liked licking Mystery's face. When Katya returned from Las Vegas, Mystery helped her move out of her old house. "I think it's completely ridiculous for you to rent a new apartment, knowing that you'll be spending most of your time with me," he told her. "So why don't you just move into my room?" All she had to her name were two duffel bags, a makeup kit, Lily, and a Mazda SUV stuffed with clothing and shoes. As far as anyone knew, she had no job or source of income, though she'd modeled for a couple of low-bud- get swimsuit calendars. In the evenings, she went to school to learn special- effects makeup. Every night after class she'd prance around the house with 323 fake rope burns around her neck or artificial brain spilling out of a flesh wound in her forehead or the wrinkles and liver spots of a ninety-year-old woman. Katya quickly wove herself into the fabric of the house. She volunteered to be a pivot for Papa's workshops; she put eyeliner on Herbal before he went out for the night; she cleaned the kitchen that we were all too lazy to deal with ourselves; she went shopping with Xaneus; and she played hostess to Playboy's parties. She had an amazing ability to befriend anyone, though her motivation was unclear: Maybe she was genuinely a people-loving per- son, maybe she enjoyed the free rent. Either way, she was giving the home its first rays of warmth and camaraderie since the night we'd moved in and sat in the Jacuzzi, dreaming of the future together. I liked her. We all liked her. We even let her brother, a shaggy-haired sixteen-year-old with Tourette's syndrome, sleep in the pillow pit for a few weeks. Mystery was particularly happy with himself. He hadn't dated anyone seriously since Patricia. "I actually have a crush on my own girlfriend," he said with pride one eve- ning, showing Katya's swimsuit-calendar picture to a group of random sarg- ers. "I think of her constantly, like when you have a baby. I have a very strong nurturing instinct. I need to take care of this girl and make sure she's safe." Later that night, as Herbal cooked steak on the barbecue, Katya and I sat in the Jacuzzi, sharing a bottle of wine. "I'm really scared," she said. "Why?" I asked, though I really knew why. "I'm starting to fall in love with Mystery." "Well, he's a talented and amazing guy." "Yeah," she said. "I never let myself fall in love like this. I don't know enough about him yet. I'm worried." Then she sat there quietly. She wanted me to say something, to warn her if she was making a mistake. I didn't say anything. A few days later, Mystery, Katya, and I flew to Las Vegas. As we changed to go out for the night, he rattled on about his favorite subject. "I am so into this girl." He smudged on black eyeliner and smeared white concealer beneath his eyes. "She's even bi. She has a couple she sleeps with in New Or- leans." He centered a black cowboy hat he had bought in Australia on his head and admired himself in the mirror. "I feel like I'm pairbonding." 324 We had dinner at Mr. Lucky's at the Hard Rock Casino, where Katya put away two glasses of champagne; then crossed the street to Club Par- adise, a strip club, where she put away two more glasses of champagne. When the waitress came to the table, Katya commented to Mystery, "She's really hot." Mystery looked the waitress over. She was a perky Latina with long black hair that reflected the stage lights and a densely packed body that threatened to burst through her clothing. "Ever seen the movie Poltergeist?" Mystery asked her. He made her straw move. He told her they wouldn't get along. He asked her what she was fa- mous for—"everybody's famous for something." Soon the waitress was stopping by our table every few minutes to flirt with Mystery. "I would love to see that girl," Mystery told Katya, "eating you out." "You just want to fuck her," Katya slurred. I suppose it was difficult for any woman—especially a drunk one—to see the same routines that had en- snared her being used on another woman. And effectively. Katya leapt to her feet and stormed to the bar. Mystery followed to ap- pease her. But when she refused to acknowledge him, he stomped out of the club like an angry child. Although Katya was bisexual, Mystery still wasn't getting threesomes. He made the same mistake every time: He pushed too hard. He needed to follow Rick H.'s advice and make the experience her fan- tasy, not his. When I woke up, I took a plane home, leaving the two of them alone in the hotel room until their flight in the evening. A few hours later, I received a phone call: "Hey, it's Katya." "Hey. Is something wrong?" "No. Mystery wants to marry me. He got down on his knees at the Hard Rock pool and proposed. Everyone applauded. It was so sweet. What should I do?" The only reason I could come up with to explain Mystery's desire to get married was so he could get a U.S. citizenship. But Katya wasn't a U.S. citi- zen. She still had a Russian passport. "Don't rush into anything," I advised. "Just get engaged. Or, if you want, they have commitment ceremonies at the chapels there. Do that. Then spend some more time together and see if this is something you both really want to do." Mystery grabbed the phone. "Hey, man, you're going to get really mad at me. We're getting married. I love this girl. She's crazy. We're on our way to the chapel. Okay, bye." 325 The guy was an idiot. That evening, Mystery carried Katya over the threshold of Project Hol- lywood humming "Here Comes the Bride." They'd known each other for three weeks. "Look at my ring," Katya cooed. "Isn't it beautiful?" "Our rings cost eight thousand dollars," Mystery said with pride. That was basically all the cash he had. Though he was raking in money from his workshops, he was a fan of man toys—computers, digital cameras, elec- tronic organizers, basically anything with a chip. "This whole marriage thing," Mystery told me while Katya was in the bathroom, "is the best routine ever. She loves me now. She gets off on call- ing me her husband. It's like a time distortion." "Dude, it's the worst routine ever," I replied, "because you can only do it once." Mystery took a step toward me and removed his ring. "I'm going to tell you a secret," he whispered, putting the ring in my hand. "We're not really married." If any other PUA had told me he'd gotten married in Vegas to a girl he'd just met, I would have known it was a joke. But Mystery was so headstrong and unpredictable that I had given him the benefit—or, more accurately, the detriment—of the doubt. "Yeah, after you left, we walked by a jewelry store in the Hard Rock and decided to fake our marriage. So I bought two rings for a hundred bucks. She's such a good liar. She totally fooled you." "You're both great illusionists." "Don't tell Katya I told you. I think she's really enjoying the role-play. On an emotional level, it's the same as really being married for her." Mystery was right: Perception is reality. In the days that followed, their entire relationship changed. They actually started acting like an old mar- ried couple. Now that he was living with a woman, Mystery didn't feel the need to go out anymore. To him, clubs were for sarging. To Katya, though, they were for dancing. So she started going clubbing without him. After a while, Mystery hardly left his room or, for that matter, his bed. It was hard to tell whether he was just being lazy, or if a depression was coming on. There's a pattern the pickup artists have called rocks versus gold. It's a speech a man gives a woman he's dating when she stops having sex with him. He tells her that women in a relationship want rocks (or diamonds) 326 while men seek gold. Rocks, for a woman, are wonderful nights out, roman- tic attention, and emotional connection. Gold for a man is sex. If you give a woman only gold or a man just rocks, neither will be satisfied. There must be an exchange. And Katya was giving Mystery the gold, but he wasn't giv- ing her the rocks. He wasn't taking her out at all. It wasn't long before they began to resent each other. He'd say, "She gets drunk every night. It's driving me crazy." She'd say, "When I met him, he had all these plans and ambitions. Now he never leaves his bed. What's the point?" He'd say, "She never shuts up. She's constantly yapping about some- thing pointless and bouncing off the walls." She'd say, "I'm getting wasted every night because I don't want to be in a reality that's so sad." Mystery needed a more passive girl. Katya needed a more active man. And it saddened the rest of us; after living in a house full of men for so many months, we'd grown attached to her positive energy and high spirits. Mystery had taught himself everything there was to know about pickup, but nothing about how to maintain a relationship. He had this beautiful creature, full of sparkle and life, and he was just throwing it away. Soon, another woman, with a very different kind of sparkle, would move into Project Hollywood. I received the text message at 11:39 PM: "Can I stay at yr house? They repoed the car and worse. U don't wanna know. Need to not be alone." It was Courtney Love. I knocked on the door of Courtney's corporate apartment in West Los An- geles. "Come in. It's open." Courtney sat on the floor in the middle of a sea of American Express bills and bank statements with a yellow highlighter in her hand. She wore a black Marc Jacobs dress with buttons running down the side. One was missing "I can't look at these anymore," she moaned. "There are so many loans here that I never knew of or approved." She stood up and slammed an American Express bill on the table. Half the items were highlighted, with notes in black ink scribbled in the mar- gins. "If I stay here, I'll do drugs again," she cried. She didn't have a manager, and taking care of her own affairs was prov- ing to be more than she could handle. "I don't want to be alone," she begged. "I need somewhere to stay for a couple days. Then I'll be out of your hair. I promise." "That's fine." I guess she didn't have a problem with the story I'd writ- ten in Rolling Stone. "Herbal said you could sleep in his room. I just want to warn you, though, that you're not going into an ordinary house." "I know. I want to meet the pickup artists. Maybe they can help me." I walked her downstairs and strapped her sixty-pound suitcase to the luggage rack on the back of my Corvette. "You should also know that Katya's brother is staying with us," I said. "And if he seems a little off, it's because he has Tourette's." "Is that like when you yell 'Shit! Balls!' uncontrollably?" "Yeah. It's sort of like that." I parked in the garage and dragged her suitcase upstairs to the house. The first person we saw inside was Herbal, who was coming out of the kitchen. "Hi shit balls," Courtney said to him. "No," I told her. "That's not Katya's brother." 3ZB Her brother walked out of the kitchen a moment later, sipping a Coke. "Hi shit balls," Courtney said to him. She took a step backward and stepped on Lily, who yelped loudly. Courtney turned around. I assumed she was going to apologize. "Fuck off," she told the dog. This was going to be an interesting couple of days. I showed her around the house and then bid her goodnight. Two min- utes later, she marched into my room. "I need a toothbrush," she said as she breezed through to my bathroom. "There's a clean one in the medicine cabinet," I yelled after her. "This will do," she snapped back, grabbing my gnarly used toothbrush off the sink. There was something endearing about her. She possessed a trait nearly every pickup artist desired but lacked: She just didn't give a fuck. The next morning, I came downstairs to find her in the living room, smoking a cigarette and wearing nothing but a pair of expensive Japanese silk panties. Her body was covered with black marks, as if she'd been rolling around in charcoal. In that state of dishabille, she met the rest of the house. "I used to ride horses with your dad," Papa told her when I intro- duced them. Courtney scowled. "If you call that man my father again, I'll punch you in the face!" She wasn't trying to be mean—she just lived in and reacted to the moment—but Papa didn't take well to aggression. All Papa had wanted from the day he'd signed the lease to Project Hollywood was to hang out with celebrities. But now that he was living with one—in fact, the most no- torious woman in the country at the time—he was petrified of her. He avoided her from that day forward, like he did everyone else who wasn't Yüklə 2,79 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
|