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Anatomy of a pickup

The setting is almost as important as the seduction itself.

Your moves lose momentum in a shitty setting. 

For example, you spend an evening putting your moves on a desirable member of the opposite sex. (Or same, we are progressive here.)

Pick the perfect setting:

In a sports bar, with a group of friends to relax with, bumping soundtrack in the background to lighten the mood and a game on the giant screen to give that illusion of an important event.

That is a strong play.

Here is the opposite.

Her grandma died, you are a distant friend of the family, and decide that her grief stricken behavior gives you the green light.

If you hesitated longer than a second about which one was perfect, you really need to pay attention. (If it was the funeral you are either brutally ignorant or playing a darker game than most.)

While the previous two examples were just a test, it gives you a perspective to appreciate the awkwardness of the following.

Its a taphouse/grill/sportsbar setting.

Both parties have had a few drinks. 

It is a festive setting.

All the signs are there.

  1. She is doing the hair flip WITH the giggle. Everything he says is hysterical. (I can hear the conversation, it is NOT hysterical.)
  2. She is emphasizing sentences with a touch to his arm, he is responding with leaning in to touch her left shoulder and speak into her right ear. It is not that loud.
  3. He has his wallet out and keeping the alcohol flowing. She discretely told her cock-blocking wing woman to take the night off. (She didn’t say that, but its more fun than saying she mouthed the word “GO” to her friend.)

The scene is set for a romantic evening. 

If it goes on too long, they both run the risk of getting too drunk.

For him, that means that she may drift past horny and enter an emotional state where she just cries and talks about her ex.

For her, that means he exits perpetual hard on state and enters what is known as “whiskey dick”. It means that the alcohol robs him of his erection at gunpoint, demanding a ransom of sleep and will not return it until then. (Alcohol seems friendly, but it is NOT a friend.)

However, it doesn’t look like that will be a problem.

Even over the noise of the crowd, I clearly heard “Would you like to go?” along with her immediate head bob.

There is no game of “Go talk” or “Check out my friend’s party” or even the completely ridiculous, but shockingly successful “You should hear the new speakers in my car”. (That is pulling out of a pretty successful playbook right there.)

So they go. 

I wish them well.

He risked a lot of embarrassment if she shut him down loudly and publicly.

She risked a crapload more just because the biggest danger to her is, well, him.

You always hope they are having a fun and lively sexual romp for the evening and might even be the beginning of something for them.

Or she might have smelled chloroform for the first time and he is feeding her into the trunk at this moment. (He better hope her dad isn’t Liam Neesen. Because he doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you want. If you’re looking for ransom, I can tell you he doesn’t have money… but what he does have is a very particular set of skills. Over 10 years and that movie still rocks.)

So lets hope we see them having grand slam in the morning and talking about their second date.

(But just in case, I know somebody who claims they know Neesen’s publicist, thats a start..)

 
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Posted by on December 8, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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She chose the thug life, it didn’t chose her.

A day of loss.

Every now and then, I turn around and suddenly have an “Oh Shit!” moment.

They are usually due to my own stupidity and the last 24 hours have been no exception to that rule.

The first Oh Shit happened last night at about 5:30pm.

I had finished the bicycle commute and just showered.

I was happy hour bound.
A cocktail at the end of my work week to take the edge off.. (Thursday is the end of my week. Odd story there.)

Put my pants on, and went to put my wallet in my pocket. (No pockets in my bike shorts.)

Oh Shit!

Left my wallet at work.

Made a call and got some coworkers involved in my little personal scavenger hunt.

Luckily, I keep spare cash at the house, so happy hour would be where I would await word of if I was only inconvenienced or truly screwed.

I was halfway thru my first libation when I got the text, life goes on, financially. My wallet was secured and waiting for me.

Suddenly, the drink tasted that much better.

Before I left, I decided to get some dinner to go.

As I was standing at the bar, waiting for my food, and surprise, having another drink, I met Betty.

Betty is the puzzle, in the conundrum, in the enigma.

Because there are parts that fit.

And parts that don’t.

Her hair is done in a “Gladys Kravis” mini boof hairdo from the 50’s.

Little old lady specs rest at the tip of her nose.

Her dress is a fashionable flower print moomoo, possibly a size 20.

Maybe in her mid to late 60’s.

I talked with her as I waited.

I was having a Dos Equis, one of my favorites.

Betty is having a vodka gimlet.

So you have the whole picture in your head of Betty, right?

Did I mention she has to full sleeves of tattoos?

Fresh.

It seems that Betty got a wild hair up her ass a few months ago when her granddaughter turned 18 and got a tattoo.

Betty loved it.

So, she turned on the new fangled “COM PEW TOR” that her son got her, and looked at tattoos on the internet.

And something happened to Betty.

I am not against tattoos, hell I have two good sized ones on my shoulders.

But Betty got an idea in her little squishy head and went on down to the local tattoo parlor.

And she told the tattoo artist to tattoo her arms with something that reflected life.

Those were her total instructions.

So the artist free-handed two sleeves in several sittings, giving Betty what she asked for.

Tattoos that reflected life.

The thug life.

To his credit, the tattoo artist definitely had some talent.

But, if I had to call it, the artist had a good amount of old school cholo and modern gangbanger.

The only other place I have seen tattoos this harsh was on convicts.

The “Laugh now, Cry later” theater masks are prominent on her left arm as it leaves the sleeve, with a picture of a beautiful topless young Latina beneath it. An evil clown with a joint sticking out of his lips has a gun to his head and just blew his brains out all over an 8-ball and a set of dice.

I was mesmerized at how wildly over the top this little sweet old lady’s tattoos went. On her right wrist was an angry pitbull being mounted by a larger pitbull.

Nobody went to the tattoo parlor with Betty to ask her what the fuck she was thinking that morning.

I am not against tattoos, but they should reflect your life.

Your thug life.

All of a sudden, my Oh Shit moment doesn’t seem like much.

 
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Posted by on June 26, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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