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When A Girl Needs An Asshole

I met a pretty blonde girl for a first date at one of my favorite lounges (that is to say, the lounge met the requirement of being conveniently located within walking distance of my place). Halfway through the marry, boff, kill game we had the following conversation.

Her: Have you seen that VH1 show The Pickup Artist?

Me: Yeah, why?

Her: The main guy from the show, Mystery, hit on me at St Louis Bar a few weeks ago.

Me: Was he wearing a fuzzy hat with aviator goggles and a Victorian jacket over a t-shirt that said “Mystery”?

Her: Yes! Just like in the show.

Me: [thinking to myself a trip to Poland sounds good right about now] How did he do?

Her: He asked me for my opinion about something, and then made fun of me. I called him an asshole and told him to fuck off.

Me: Lemme guess… you were kind of attracted to him, right?

Her: No! He’s an asshole.

Me: Wow, you’re one of those! I thought you guys were a dying breed.

Her: One of what?!

Me: You’re drawn to assholes. It’s OK, you can be honest. I won’t judge.

Her: [stares at me for a few seconds] I’ll admit that in the past I was drawn to assholes. But there was no way he was getting a chance with me. The guy is a D-list celebrity. Not even! He’s a total douche.

Me: And yet a month later you’re still thinking about that moment.

Maxim #3: Whenever an attractive girl tells you she hates assholes, or describes her experience in the past dating assholes and claims to avoid them now, or recites a laundry list of asshole-y things guys do that she disapproves of, you can bet your weight in gold bricks that she needs you to be an asshole to her.

After this illuminating conversation I knew that I had miscalibrated her and realized I should have played up my asshole side. Consequently, likelihood of a second date was low. When I go out with girls I have a system where I rank them according to how much asshole behavior they will need to open their legs heart for me. I’m usually pretty good at this and can switch on my asshole persona at will.

For instance, if she’s a 10 on the 1 to 10 asshole craving scale, I will occasionally tell her, with a flash of anger, to “shut the fuck up” when she tries to shit test me. If she’s a 1, I’ll be Mr. Nice Guy and compliment her on her choice of shoes. If she’s in the middle of the asshole craving scale (where most cute young girls are), I’ll get her to buy me an expensive drink. Normally, I can accurately assess whether a girl is an asshole craver early in the pickup, usually within the first minute, by how bright her eyes shine when I disrespect her. If she pushes me away in mock indignation, that tells me I’ve hit pay dirt. But this time my date’s calm, intelligent, giggle-free demeanor and conservative dress had me fooled into thinking she had a low asshole craving quotient. A rookie mistake.

A part of me was pleased that I was on a date trying to get into the panties of the same girl that the infamous Mystery tried and, presumably, failed to pick up a few weeks earlier. But a bigger part of me was grossed out by the nagging thought that every girl I’ve dated in the past three years has been hit on over and over by hundreds, maybe thousands, of acolytes of the game all running the same routines and wearing matching armbands and unusual pendants.

Later that night, after the date, I went to another bar and asked two girls how well they knew each other. They said the night before a guy had given them “the best friends test and asked us what shampoo we used.” I made a mental note to pirate the Pimsleur series on learning Polish.


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