Warning: Graphic sexuality and offensive subject matter

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Looking good is a science. Looking good while looking like you don’t care about looking good is an art. Most guys just don’t get these finer nuances of style. That’s what separates me from them, I guess. I’m a deep thinker.

The thing is, people that are truly self-confident don’t obsess over their appearance. They’re comfortable with who they are and don’t need anyone else to validate them. Therefore, if you want chicks to think you’re truly self-confident, you’ve got to act like you don’t care what they think at all.

Take tonight, for example. I’m standing here in the Blue News Room with my good dress pants, slick shirt, leather shoes. The whole outfit exudes class, and most guys would stop there. But me, I added a faded, frayed Pittsburgh Steelers hat with folded beer caps clamped around the rim, and turned the entire image sideways. Now, my clothes say that I’ve got money, but it also says that I’m a little crazy, that not like every other guy in the club. It says that I’m original, that I’ve got something original to say.

I got the idea from a book about picking up women, and I can tell you that it works. Now, it’s real important to take your environment into consideration before experimenting with new looks. I can get away with my baseball cap here in the Blue News Room because it’s an exclusive place. Everyone here has money, so the girls know that I’m a successful guy dressing down a bit, not a loser trying to dress up. So, I let my boys get a conversation going with some ladies while I lean against the bar and look disinterested. The moment that girls walk into places like this they have guys jumping all over them like drunk monkeys. When I want to get with a girl, I won’t talk to her at all. Not a word. I’ll just stand there like I don’t have a care in the world, like I’ve already got everything I need.

It’s a little-known law of life that beautiful women are the most insecure of all. They’re so used to guys fawning over them that they’re terrified to lose it. The moment people stop paying attention, hot chicks need to know why. They want so bad to find out that the guy is gay, or blind, or just an asshole intimidated by their presence, because they need constant reassurance that they’re still beautiful.

Take that reassurance away for even a minute, and hot women fall apart. Ugly chicks or average looking chicks don’t get upset about being ignored, because they’re used to it. They don’t know what they’re missing, but the beautiful ones do. They know exactly what they’d be missing, and it scares the hell out of them. Beautiful women live in constant fear of not being beautiful.

Now, I don’t want to act like my method is perfect, so I should point out that meeting women by ignoring them can take a lot of time. I also don’t recommend the technique to short guys or guys with average looks, because you need to stand out from the crowd for the girls to notice you ignoring them in the first place. Lucky for me, I’m tall and good looking. Girls tend to say that either my eyes or my hair are my best features–until they see me naked, and then it’s almost always my abs. I work hard on my abs.

Anyway, while my boys strike up a conversation with some ladies, I just lean against the bar, sip my drink, and watch football on the television. One of the girls asks my friend Bobby if I ever talk. Bobby tells her that I’m the strong, silent type. I pretend that I didn’t hear any of it while I check her out in the mirror behind the bar.

She’s your typical party chick–dirty blonde hair, leather jacket, likes to talk about being a bad girl and shopping. But she’s got long legs coming out of her short skirt, and nice ankles. I like nice ankles. A girl can fake good legs if she works out hard enough, but you can’t exercise hard enough to fake good ankles. That’s how you know if legs are really any good–you look at the ankles.

The party girl asks me, “Do you ever talk?” I smile. “That’s not fair. The second I say that I don’t talk, I’m a liar. You trying to trap me in a paradox?”

She laughs. Her name is Julie, but I call her Jules, and she laughs again as if it’s funny.

“What do you do?”

I bat my eyes and grin. “What would you like me to do?” Jules laughs. Women love it when guys say subtle, clever shit like that. Most guys are too obvious.

“I meant what do you do for work?”

“I’m a financial adviser,” I answer, as if it’s nothing, as if I work a cash register at a fast food place or something. She doesn’t know what an investment analyst means, but it sounds like money and she looks impressed. “It’s not much, but it pays the bills,” I say. “The only problem is that I work so much I barely make it to the gym every day.” I like to use my job to segue into my physical conditioning.

We talk a bit about music and our favorite celebrities. I profess a secret love for the sitcom Full House.

“Oh my God,” Jules squeals, “I used to love that show.”

I act surprised, but every chick her age loved that show. They always squeal when I mention it. That’s the only reason I bring it up with chicks in the first place. I expound on my theory about how the Olsen twin’s relationships with their television fathers contributed to their long-term emotional problems–all bullshit, of course, but plausible enough to sound profound–and Jules nods in deep contemplation.

She laughs. We order shots and she laughs some more. I tell dirty jokes and she laughs. Everything I do makes her laugh. An observer might think that she’s buying my bullshit, but the truth is she’s just impressed at how good I am at bullshitting. No woman is innocent–least of all the ones who pretend to be. It’s all part of the game. My role is to act rascally and charming, but not overly interested, while Jules’ role is to pretend that she doesn’t realize that I’m just using her for sex. That way she can go home with me without guilt. As long as everyone observes the rules of the game, everyone gets to go home happy.

It’s late and I’m getting tired of the music. I’ll have one more drink before I take Jules home. I go up behind her, kiss her earlobe, and slip my hand down the front of her pants, down under the bar where no one can see. She acts shocked, but doesn’t stop me.

I whisper in her ear, “You’re driving me fucking crazy. Let’s go to my place.”

It’s good form to switch gears from cool, half-interest to unbearable passion. It makes them feel like they’ve done something right…like they’re good. Jules pretends to be reluctant and then agrees to come back to my place. She says that she has to use the bathroom first and drags one of her friends along. I order a beer and a shot, drain them both, and get ready for the concerned friend routine.

Sure enough, Jules’ bathroom buddy walks up a moment later looking all serious. She’s a little platinum blonde in a tight, long-sleeved top that hugs her waist and really brings out her tits. I think about going for her instead of Jules, but it’s too late and I don’t feel like working that hard. Bathroom buddy sticks her finger in my chest. “She just had her heart broken, and she doesn’t need any more problems. Treat her right, or I’m coming after you. She’s special.”

I laugh at ‘special.’ She smiles because she thinks I find her tough-chick act to be cute. Jules comes out of the bathroom. I look into the eyes of the platinum blonde, who’s trying to look serious and cute at the same time. “Yea, sure,” I say, “as if Jules is the only one that’s going to be sucking some stranger’s dick tonight.”

I stand there for an extra moment to savor the expression on her face and cut across the dance floor to meet Jules. Jules smiles. “She didn’t give you too hard a time, did she?”

“Not at all,” I answer, put my arm around her, and lead her outside.

I hail a cab. A Turkish kid with sunglasses propped on his head pulls over. He keeps glancing at me in the rear-view to catch my attention. When I return his gaze, he flicks his eyes over to Jules and smiles. I smile back and let him feel like he’s in on it.

Guys like him would pay for girls like Jules. I give the driver a little insider’s smile a couple times, but he just keeps throwing it back over and over again, and I get tired of it. My head is starting to hurt and my stomach doesn’t feel good. It has to be a hundred degrees in the goddamn cab, and the Turk keeps looking at me in the rearview, raising his eyebrows and winking.

I rest my head against the window and pretend to sleep. The cabbie drops us off in front of my building. I tip him well and he smiles, nods at Jules who is standing on the sidewalk and says something about a ‘hot ass-piece.’

I nod. “You know it, buddy.”

I lead her to my building and she marvels at how high up my apartment is. She walks through the rooms checking out the cutting-edge entertainment system, the marble coffee table, the handmade Persian rug. She sits on the leather couch and runs her hands over it and asks me how much it cost. When I tell her the price, her eyes grow wide and her hands move more reverently.

I sit down next to her, wrap my arms around her, and kiss her neck. She kisses back and runs one hand through my hair while the other strokes the leather couch.

I tear off her blouse and skirt, toss her panties to the floor, and slip inside her. She gasps. The couch creaks under us. She’s whispering something in my ear, but I can’t tell what it is. She gets louder and holds her legs up in the air and I look at her perfect ankles.

She gasps and moans and bites my shoulder. I close my eyes and pretend that she’s somebody else. The only way I’ve ever been able to get off was to imagine that I’m screwing someone besides the person I’m actually screwing.

Next week, when I’m banging someone else, I might imagine that I’m banging Jules, but right now, while I really am banging Jules, I have to think of girls that I’ve screwed before in order to stay interested. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever actually screwed the person I was screwing a single time in my whole life.

Jules gasps and screams in my ear. I rail her so hard that the couch bangs into the coffee table and knocks the lamp off of it.

Jules gets excited, as if I’m caught up in such wild passion that I can’t help breaking things, and I bet that she’s wondering how expensive the lamp was. But the truth is that I don’t even know why I’m screwing her so hard. It’s closer to anger than passion, I think. Women like Jules disgust me. What kind of woman is impressed by my bullshit? It’s fucking pathetic.

She tightens her legs around me and digs her fingernails into my shoulder. She gets real quiet when she cums. Her mouth opens like she’s screaming, but not a sound comes out of her. Then she goes limp and I cum, too, just to get it over with. She laughs as I go to the bathroom to get a towel.

“Look,” she says, pointing at her quivering thighs. “Look.”

I toss the towel to her and walk over to the window to look out over the bay. I like the way the water looks at night with the lights reflecting off it.

“Look,” she giggles, “look.”

“I have to get up for work in a few hours,” I say, watching the little orange light of a ship glide out into the darkness of the bay.

Jules is quiet for a bit, and then starts putting her clothes on. She tells me to give her a call and I say I will.

“I think you’ll need my number first.” She laughs.

I plug her digits into my phone and offer to call her a cab, but she says she can call her own. She kisses my cheek and walks out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

A few minutes later I see her leave the building and head up the street talking on her phone. For just a moment after she disappears around the corner I feel like I want her to come back.

The feeling gets so bad that I actually almost call her phone, but I’d just get tired of her the moment she walked back in the door, anyway.

I delete Jules’ name from my phone and look out across the dead streets at a city full of dark windows that nobody can see behind. I hope that I can get some sleep before I have to work tomorrow, but I know that I won’t. I’ll just sit here looking out at thousands of windows positioned at regular intervals like tombstones, hoping to catch the eye of someone looking back.

I don’t know why I do this all the time, but I do. After an hour or so I’ll go the computer and watch some porn. The weird thing about getting laid is that it always makes me want to watch porn. It just feels more satisfying–more like the real thing.

I know that I see a lot of things differently from most people, but I think that pretty much everybody can relate to that.

copyright 2015

Originally published at pagespineficshowcase.com.

Written by

I’m not in the Matrix. I AM the Matrix.

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