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Damian and I were at a multi-floored historic building converted into a lounge (a not uncommon idiosyncrasy of the city) that features the hottest female waitstaff and bartenders in the city.
Damian bumped my elbow and motioned me to look toward two attractive blondes — a 7.5 and an 8.5 — who were standing near us. Two men had just walked up and engaged them in conversation. Both men were, as far as I can tell these things, decent-looking, over 6 feet tall, and in shape. One was older– late 30s, early 40s — and sharply dressed with a dash of gray around the temples. His buddy was late 20s, early 30s, and dressed more casually. The younger guy had a frat boy-ish vibe, while the older guy struck a more sophisticated pose.
Since all four of them were within earshot, I focused my listening attention on the group, occasionally glancing over, so I could enjoy the spectacle of these guys running whatever game they had on the two blondes. When I see a choice setup like this, I take it as an opportunity to observe and learn or, in the case of men with no game, to amuse myself and gawk at the carnage, while positioning for a flanking maneuver.
The men went straight in, telegraphing their interest from the word “go”. Opened with “Hey, how you guys doing?” Points for boldness, demerits for shitty opener. Even in socially overheated crowded venues, the best approach is noncommittal — from an angle, over the shoulder. Also, it doesn’t hurt to be a little more creative than “How you doin’?”.
The poor approach didn’t hurt these guys. The girls welcomed them with big smiles and enthusiastic hellos, probably because the men were reasonably good-looking compared to the average man in the place. The older man looked like he was of means.
The men registered the girls’ positive reaction and took the beta bait, amping up their energy levels and enthusiasm. This was my first hint that a pickup attempt disaster was looming. The younger guy began grinning ear to ear like an idiot, and bobbing his head up and down each time the girls talked. The older guy maintained a more aloof body language, keeping his back straight and avoiding any “pecking” or leaning into the girls. He didn’t wildly smile like his fratboy buddy. I could see he had more self-control and experience than his younger friend. His economy of words and body movement made him seem the more confident of the two men. If I noticed that, then surely the girls noticed it as well.
The men ran what I call Chit Chat Game. This is the kind of conversation you make with someone when you are bereft of anything interesting to say. “What do you think of this place?” “You guys live in the city?” “Hey, the martinis here are really good.” “You guys like to dance?” “Whoa, you’re from North Carolina?” “How about those Tar Heels!” The fratboy latched onto this subject because it was in his comfort zone. “Yeah, you’re a Tar Heels fan? All riiiiiight!! High five!”. He tried to hold the high five with the 7.5 for a second too long, but she dropped her hand fast.
Yes, the guys were actually talking college sports. I could *feel* the initial attraction drain out of the girls, like a nail in a tire slowly letting out air. Their smiles had turned plastic, and they began gripping their drinks tighter and holding them up higher on their chests. The hotter one made a series of quick sidelong surveys around the room.
The older man wasn’t talking as much, but when he did he had a steadier, calmer cadence than his sports fan friend. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t lead and take control of the conversation when it started sputtering into lame sports talk territory. What he did contribute was of the “business interview” variety. More mature than gushing over the Tar Heels to be sure, but still death for pickup.
Surprisingly, Fric and Frac managed to stay in set for fifteen minutes. I chalked it up to the niceness of the girls — they were very forgiving of horrid game that would have sent the typical urban lawyer chick into massive shit test, ball crushing mode, after suckering the tools for free drinks of course. These two girls must have been from out of town — way out of town.
The 7.5 delivered the cockblock signal to her friend — a thin-lipped entreaty and an almost imperceptible eyebrow raise — but that was all it took for her to get the message.
“Well, we’re going to go upstairs now. See you!” As they turned and slithered away from the men, Fratboy looked over his shoulder at them and in a sickeningly pleading voice moaned “Aww, you guys are going upstairs?? All right, maybe we’ll see you up there!” The girls didn’t bother looking back.
Damian found all this the height of hilarity, but also was overcome with an urge to pummel the beta out of these guys. He believes bad game is more nauseating than eating a spoiled enchilada. It really is like rubbernecking at a particularly gruesome car accident. I enjoy bad game in others because it means less competition for me. This is why I support gay rights. I want as many men as possible to feel comfortable embracing the butt pirate lifestyle and thus removing themselves from hetero circulation.
Fratboy and Boring Gent talked amongst themselves, obviously planning a way to reconnect with the girls. Someone needed to be charitable and interject to explain the futility of their situation, but no man’s ego is strong enough to handle that sort of constructive criticism, especially not in the chaos of the field. Instead, we watched them climb up the stairs to meet their by now long gone girls.
We didn’t have the heart to tell them that the only thing upstairs were the bathrooms.
Later, I bumped into the hotter girl on the first level of the club. I smiled at her.
“So, how did those guys do?”
A lot of losers in love insist that “being yourself” is morally superior to “manipulating and seducing” a girl with game. They have an instinctual aversion to anything that doesn’t conform to the beta script of “boy meets girl and sometimes magic happens in a most satisfyingly natural and unforced way, as God intended”. They believe any conscious effort to make oneself more attractive to the opposite sex is inherently dishonest.
They are wrong. Honesty is recognizing that women have different desires and appealing to that. Dishonesty with yourself is ignoring this fundamental fact of the sexes, and selfishly expecting women to be attracted to your principled obstinacy.
What game-hating beta losers don’t comprehend is that the opposite of Game — casual chit chat — can increase a man’s failure rate with women who would otherwise prefer that he not disappoint them so. “Being yourself” isn’t an ethically or strategically neutral stance; it is an unnecessarily negative obstacle to connecting with women in the way they want you to connect with them. Despite what women claim, they would really rather you run some game on them so they can feel those good feelings that are aroused by skilled practitioners of the art of indulging the female psyche. They just don’t want you to tell them you’re running game.
The two girls were happy to be approached by the two men on account of their style and looks. But Anti-Game quickly eroded whatever attraction was there initially. These guys were being themselves, and it cost them dearly. They were “honest” according to the beta playbook, and they were punished for their honesty.
Anti-Game is the equivalent of being an ill-prepared Boy Scout. Anti-Game is to men what going out wearing baggy pants and flannel shirt, no makeup, and greasy, unkempt hair is to women. Sure, you may be good-looking enough to pull some ass despite your lack of game or your figure-concealing unflattering clothes, but you’ll be needlessly limiting your options.