Here’s one of the best LR’s I have ever had the pleasure to read. Ciaran has an easy writing style and tight game (see his Shock and awe post here).
Don't want to say too much more other than - enjoy the read.
Ironic, really. I'd just spent the morning monkeying around Edinburgh, and I'd bought a book on philosophy and a new copy of Neil Strauss's The Game, having given my original away as a present to a clueless chum. It was still early afternoon, so I dropped in to a pub I used to work at on Edinburgh's Royal Mile. I bumped into a friend of mine, Richard, who is a natural player of real talent and panache, and we sat outside at a table, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer and shooting the shit.
A couple, Daniel and Sarah (friends of Richard), sat with us, and after a while the topic turned to the books I was reading. The book on philosophy drew the predictable derisive accusations of pretention, which in all fairness I agree with. Most books on modern philosophy are only useful if you're fresh out of toilet paper, so we all had a chuckle about that.
Then Richard started ripping on me for reading The Game. He'd never read it (and in all fairness he doesn't need to), and in classic alpha style he starts trying to belittle me in an amusing and charming way over these "tricks" and "techniques" that I'm allegedly into. I don't even remotely rise to it, I just talk about Strauss, Mystery, and the story of the book. I also talked, lightly but genuinely about how it changed my life, which it did. I spoke briefly about the kind of guy I was a year ago when I'd walked away from a relationship I really cared about with an awesome girl. I explained that it was because I knew that the attraction, the electricity - whatever name you want to stick to that spark of magic that had drawn us together in the first place - had gone and I had no idea how to bring it back. All I could do was jump, before I was pushed. Sometimes I still miss her, but I didn't tell them that. I never tell anyone that.
I mentioned in passing about how I'd sworn to myself that I'd never walk away from someone I loved again, but I had no idea how to beat the insecurities with women that had dogged me my whole life. Then I read The Game.
Richard's comments on routines also didn't bother me because I personally find the free-form, genuine and sexually expressive ideas of Juggler» and Gunwitch» to be far more in tune with my personality. All this time, I'm just being open. I'm just being genuine. I don't give a fuck what they think. Nonetheless, I decide to have a chuckle and start telling them about Style's Dual Induction Massage routine. At this point, Daniel perks up. Even Richard looks interested, and a flash of playerish respect whispers across his chiseled face for Strauss's manipulative genius.
Sarah starts to get stroppy, not at me - she's smiling at me - but at her boyfriend who's getting altogether too excited at the possibility of engineering a threesome with two random girls.
All this time, the beautiful sound of girlish laughter is rising from the table next to me. Whoever they are they're having fun. I don't look around. There's no need to. Not yet.
Sarah stands to leave, and she squeezes my hand slightly as she shakes it. I nod imperceptibly, and then give Daniel a megawatt smile and a handshake. He returns my grip, oblivious. They leave.
Richard's also heading off, and I'm not going to stop him. I have work to do.
So there I am. Sitting in the smoking area. Socially proofed by three friends, but now alone with my book. The book makes me look normal. Intellectual even, if you believe women read that far into things. But then of course, I'm not reading. I'm listening.
Every now and then, an opener is handed to you on a plate. It's so easy. It's not just an opening line, but also a chance to demonstrate some real personality, humour and worth. There are four hot American girls. One of them is talking about Blackadder.
"No," One of them says, "It's the funniest show ever!"
I turn around.
"Are you talking about Blackadder?" I ask.
"Yeah." The girl says. She's pretty. Grungy, a bit of a rock chick. Looks like Lori Petty from Tank Girl.
"I fucking love Blackadder. How the hell do you know about it? You're American." Please God, I think - let her not be Canadian...
"My mom watches it - she's got all the scripts and everything." Thank fuck.
"Fucking cool." I turn to the group, to the chick who Tank Girl was originally talking to. "Blackadder," I continue, "is a comedy series from the 90's - it's written by Richard Curtis, the guy who wrote Four Weddings and a Funeral."
"Oh," She says. She had no idea.
"Yeah. It's brilliant, but the first series was a bit crap. Blackadder's character was a bit of a clown, but he turns into the most acerbic, sarcastic bastard in the second series. He's brilliant." Tank Girl perks up.
"That's exactly what I was going to say!" She says, brightly.
Houston, we have lift off. We're talking about Blackadder, swapping impressions and jokes, going into general comedy chat. It's all pure gold. We go inside. We drink. We talk about porn. We go outside for more cigarettes. I give the girls alone time for a chat every now and then when I'm getting indicators of interest from one of more of them so they can all have a girly giggle about how hot I am.
After a while two of the girls leave. I pull them both in for a hug, and they love it. They go, after telling me that they'll be in X bar tonight and I should really be there. I'm left with Tank Girl, and a pretty blonde chick who I discover is half Italian, half Native American Indian. Nice. I shall hereafter refer to her as Pocahontas.
So were chatting, and one of them makes a wisecrack about something. We all laugh.
"Aw shit, you girls are lovely. I'm really glad I randomly started talking to you." I say.
This is good shit. In a one-on-one with a chick, or in a group when you get them laughing, when you sense that they're happy you can roll this shit out. Technically (in Style-speak) it's a way to force, and to make explicit, a hook point. It's like using crampons to climb a mountain. It doesn't really matter how they respond either. They don't have to come back with a compliment - although they will if you've gauged it right - as long as you're not phased by them not telling you you're cool in return, they'll feel guilty when you just keep on talking. They'll feel guilty because you show that you weren't trying to play them, you were just being genuinely nice. They'll definitely tell you you're cool the next time you tell them you're glad you spoke to them. If you gauge it right, that is. Just make sure you mean it. It makes all the difference.
They look very slightly taken aback, but then Tank Girl picks up the ball and runs with it.
"You too," she replies "absolutely. You seem like a really cool guy. The only guys we've met here have been really sleazy or weird. You're just really cool. Isn't he cool?"
"Sure, he's great" says Pocahontas.
You can just say thanks to a compliment, or you can be cocky. But the best thing I've ever found is to really, genuinely take compliments to heart. It feels good, for one thing. It helps your self-esteem. It shows you're not invulnerable for another thing- it shows you're human without being a big pussy. It creates a real and powerful emotional connection with people. Finally, if someone senses that they've given a compliment and someone is really impressed with it, they usually elaborate on it. This is brilliant. The following I said in a level-headed, non-gushy but totally genuine way. Because it was genuine. I meant it all.
"That's really, really nice of you to say. Thanks. That means a lot to me. You have no idea."
"No, I mean it. You're fantastic," says Tank Girl. "You're funny, you're cool, you're great fun." She's beaming at me.
"Yeah, really" says Pocahontas. She smiles at me, and drops her eyelids ever so slightly.
"Shit girls, that's lovely. You're both so fucking sweet. I could eat you both up. Come here." We have a three way hug. I kiss them both on the cheeks.
Every now and then, Tank Girl has been dropping little clues about her being a lesbian. I don't rise to it. She mentions this girl she kissed, and I act like she's talking about the weather. Eventually she comes out with it – in fact, she comes out. We've been talking for about 3 hours now from the Blackadder approach. She apologises about not telling me earlier (?) but explains she didn't want to freak me out (?), offend my sense of morality (?) or scare me off (?) because she was enjoying my company and she wasn't sure how I'd react.
Just a word to the Yanks reading this. What the fuck? Are you mad? Why is this hot lesbian chick afraid to tell guys she likes pussy? Why does she think I'll get moralistic on her ass? Do you do that? What the fuck? Why does she think I'll get scared? Are you scared of hot lesbians? What the fuck? What are you saying to your hot lesbians? What the fuck is wrong with you people?
Shit, I just flamed 70% of ASF with my first post. Heh heh.
Anyway. I clearly don't give a fuck and I tell her as much. In fact, I tell her that I wouldn't know where to begin to give a fuck if you gave me a roadmap to give-a-fuck City Central and a really compelling reason to go. She then tells me that she has a girlfriend. I get the sense that this is bait, so I don't let my disappointment show in my face. What can I tell you – I want this chick. I love Tank Girl. Lori Petty is hot. But the bait is out, and I feel like a bug under a microscope - like I'm being subtly examined by both chicks for any sense of neediness. I show none. Poker-face-tastic. After a few minutes more of banter she lets slip that her girlfriend doesn't mind her playing with other people when she's on vacation as long as they tell each other. Once more my poker face comes into play, and I just about restrain myself from punching the air and doing an Irish jig. Pocahontas says that she's single, and she hasn't got laid in ages. Once more, I stop myself, and don't do a cartwheel.
"So, you're a lesbian, eh?" I ask. "How's that working out for you?" Love that question. It's from Tyler Durden in Fight Club.
"Love it." She replies.
"Have you ever been with a guy?"
"Yeah, but not since I came out. How about you?"
"I snogged my best friend once in a game of Truth or Dare," I answer truthfully.
"Did you like it?" She asked.
"No," I said. "No, it was fucking nasty." A shudder ran through my body at the memory. I'm shuddering as I type this. Ick.
"I bet you liked it a little," Tank Girl says.
"I really, really didn't. I think it's different for guys, and I don't think a lot of women get that, especially gay women. No offence, but it really is different."
"What do you mean?" Asks Tank Girl.
"Well shit. I was talking to a friend of mine, this girl called Susan - she was the one I was playing the same Truth or Dare game with, incidentally. She snogged her friend, this chick called Clare, and she said that for girls, even straight girls, it's not really a big deal. It's more like an extension of your friendship."
"Yeah, yeah I can see that." Pocahontas said.
"How about you," I asked Pocahontas, "have you ever kissed a girl?"
Stay frosty. Thread the needle.
"Wow." I said.
"Really?" Said Tank Girl.
"Well, shit," I say. "We're all on holiday. I'm sorry - 'vacation'. You two should kiss."
Tank Girl looks at Pocahontas like a wolf contemplating a newborn lamb.
"Sure, c'mere." She says, and a chick-on-chick tonguedown commences.
So once they come up for air, Tank Girl leans back in her chair. She looks at me. I look at her.
“So how was she?” I ask Pocahontas.
“Good. Very good.” Pocahontas replies.
“Hmm. If I were to kiss you,” I say to Tank Girl, “How would I rate you on a 1-10 scale?” Thanks for that, Wayne. All I want for Christmas is you.
“You can kiss me if you want.” Tank Girl says.
“Cool.” I say. It is cool. We kiss. When we break away, I lean back in my chair. I look at Pocahontas. I raise my eyebrows. She nods, smiling. I lean over. I kiss Pocahontas. We come up for air.
“I've never had a three way kiss,” says Pocahontas.
“Well come on then,” I say.
We all share a three way tonguelashing. I love my life.
Just to clarify, this is me and two hot American chicks I've only just met. We're in broad daylight in the smoking area of a pub on Edinburgh's Royal Mile, one of the busiest streets in the city. It's very picturesque. Do check it out sometime. There's a castle and everything.
After some more playful banter, Tank Girl gets up to use the toilet, and I'm left there with Pocahontas. A quick word on being tactile with the ladies. There's no such things as good touching or bad touching in my eyes. All non-sleazy physical contact is good, as long as the woman accepts it. The way I like to break down the initial barriers with chicks physically is a little like the way you use italics in a sentence for emphasis. This is a bit random, but it's the cheapest, most inoffensive kinesthetic contact this side of a backrub. Use touch to emphasise your words, in exactly the same way that you use italics in a sentence. Hold the touch for the duration of the emphasis – the italics – then take your hand back. Hold their eyes the whole time.
To be honest, I don't even think about it now, it's just part of how I relate to people, and especially women. It makes them like you. It's weird. The thing is, though, it comes in completely under radar – women just think you're a touchy feely kind of guy, and that it's normal for you so to be. This is obviously cool. But their accepting your tactile nature as totally normal is a double edged sword. For many guys, getting touchy with a chick is a sign you're coming on to them, and so it acts like a statement of interest. I can get incredibly tactile with a woman, and she still won't really know if I like her sexually, which can be a bit of a fucker, especially if I assume I'm being so obvious it's silly, and she's still blissfully living in blonde-world.
This was exactly what happened here.
“You're very tactile” said Pocahontas.
“Really?” I ask, innocently.
“Yeah, it's fine, it's just that when a guy touches me as much as you do it usually means that they're hitting on me.”
“Oh.” I say. There is a pause. I try not to giggle.
“I...” She splutters “I mean... are you? Are you hitting on me?”
There are a number of different ways in which you can answer that question in a bad way, and there are a number of different ways you can answer it in a good way. Sure, you could go cocky, and turn it round on her. Sure, you could segue into a feelings/values/emotional connection spiel. Or if you were so wont, you could play hard to get.
Or you could swing for that pitch so hard you damn near smash the bat, and put that ball into fucking orbit. After a careful process of selection lasting all of no seconds, I decided to opt for the latter option.
“I'm sorry, what?” I ask.
“Are you hitting on me?” She asks again. I look at her, incredulous.
“You're asking me if I think you're hot?” Little bit of a reframe. Hope you see why.
“Are you from Mars? Have I not made that sufficiently clear with the kissing? Ok – look. I'll answer your question. Yes, I think you're HOT. You're so hot, I could fry BACON on your ASS. I would do things to you that decorum prohibits their mention here. I'll HAMMER you into the MATTRESS until you don't know who you ARE. I'll pound you in ways God has yet to invent. I would love to do that. Hell yes. Hell. Yes. Oh, c'mere you little monkey.” I kiss her again. Lots of tongues involved. “Does that answer your question?”
“Yeah.” She's all hot and bothered. “So you'd take me home?”
“YES I would. Yes. Oh yes. Ah, you're so sweet. Look at you.”
I don't close her. I could have taken her away right there, but no. She's locked in now, provided I don't do anything stupid. It's time to play in the high stakes round. A quick word about what I just did. If you get asked by a girl if you fancy her, or if you'd fuck her, or if you'd like to whatever, don't treat it like a weird test. Treat it like an open goal-mouth in the World Cup final. Hammer your shit home. Really go for it. Wax lyrical. Get visual. Hit that ball back fifty times as hard as you got it. It turns women on. A lot.
Tank Girl comes back from the bathroom.
“Hey baby.” I say.
“Hiya.” She smiles.
“We've got a confession.” I say.
“Yeah?” Asks Tank Girl.
“Yeah, we kissed when you were gone. Sorry.”. Tank Girl goes to say something like 'don't worry about it,' but I cut her off. “We don't want you to feel left out so we have to both kiss you.” I lean forward and tongue her. I pull back. I'm sitting in between them. “Now you two kiss.”
They lean together and have a passionate, full on snog. It's fucking sexy. I could smash bricks with the rock hard lump in my pants. I refrain from so doing. Then I get an idea. It's a good one.
As they're in the middle of the kiss, I say, quietly “This may be a little inappropriate, but...” Then I get Tank Girl's hand and place it on Pocahontas's boob. She starts feeling her up in an expert lesbian way. I place Pocahontas's hand on Tank Girl's boob. She starts feeling her up in a bi-curious experimental way. This is turning into a masterpiece. I feel like Da Vinci.
Ok – here's the thing. If you're trying to get something like this off the ground, you need to either be secure in yourself, or be really good at shutting the fuck up when you need to. Girls can sense if you are jealous. If I'd have interrupted that kiss, or tried to join in, I'd have ended up going home either alone or with just one of them. Probably with Pocahontas. You need to let them seduce each other, and the weird thing is that even though they were both girls, my jealousy alarms were blaring like crazy in my head. You could actually feel the sexual chemistry between these two chicks like a physical heat. It was kind of scary – for a second I thought they'd just fuck off and leave me there alone, but I held my nerve. I kept my cool through an enormous effort of will in the face of an incredibly intoxicating combination of jealousy and arousal. Eventually they broke the kiss. For a few seconds, no one spoke.
“That was hot.” I said.
“Yeah.” Said Tank Girl.
“Mmmmffnnm.” Said Pocahontas.
Now, I'm sure that we represented a bit of a spectacle. As I mentioned, this is outside in a busy street. That said, no-one had given us any shit up until this point. All of a sudden, the nastiest, skankiest junkie-smackhead of a sleazy rotting-toothed tramp-in-his-best-suit starts trying to bust in on the conversation. Every time I speak he laughs loudly, just behind me in my ear, as if to get my attention. He sidles up behind Tank Girl. I shift slightly closer and put an arm around her shoulder.
This guy might as well have been sent from heaven. He was in such appalling physical shape that there was no way in a blue moon he could ever, even with a knife, represent a physical threat to me. He was obviously drunk, and probably junked up, and skanky as fuck, but he gave me the perfect opportunity to play Lancelot and demonstrate some fucking manliness.
He asked me for a lighter, and then tried to slur some crap at the girls. In all fairness he was trying to disarm the obstacle first, so we'll have to give him some credit for that. Nonetheless, I figured the direct approach would be best.
“Excuse me mate,” I said, in a friendly tone with a hint of steel behind it, “I'm having a private chat with my friends. Do you mind?”
He muttered something incoherent and slunk away. The chicks glowed at me.
“Let's get out of here. There's a really nice pub not far from here called the Brass Monkey. It's got a Cinema and cushions and hopefully a lot less weirdos than here.” I say. We get up and leave.
“I'm really cold.” Pocahontas says. I put an arm around her shoulder as we walk toward the Brass Monkey. “Do you mind if I swing by our hostel and pick up a sweater?”
“No, that's fine,” says Tank Girl with a nonchalant air that I took as a mark of a genuine player. I just shrugged. Nonchalance city.
I flag down a taxi, and we jump in. Tank Girl's in the middle. She's hot. I've got my hand on her leg. She doesn't move it.
We get out of the taxi, and split the fare. We're walking down to where their room is, and I'm experiencing this strange feeling of serenity, the kind of serenity I think you can only ever truly experience if you're a tightrope walker, or a bomb-disposal expert. The feeling that everything is fine, everything is going well, you're about to do something really awesome, but the slightest jar could fuck things up and cost you the use of your legs.
Stay frosty. Thread the needle.
As we enter the hostel, we bump into a group of about 15 people, all of these girl's friends from the hostel. I'm talking Spanish guys. Spanish guys are like Europe's most shameless and horny men, and they instantly burst into a babble of Hispanic questions, hooks and general shit to get the girls talking.
“You have to come out, we'll be at the Three Sisters later,” says one random guy.
“Excellent,” I reply, warmly but with that same hint of steel I'd noticed before with the tramp. “I know it. We'll see you there in a few minutes.”
“Good, good. See you there, man.”
“Cool.” I say, and we walk inside.
We get into the lift. This whole journey had been a big state break, especially all the fucking foreigners outside. That little bubble of comfort we'd been in at the bar and in the taxi had evaporated, but there was still a palpable air of sexual tension. I'm not worried. The game's still afoot.
We get into Tank Girl's room. Pocahontas goes to hers to get her jumper. Tank Girl starts playing shit on her Ipod. I consider how to make a move, how to escalate. I have to lead this. These girls are going to let this all slide by if I don't act. A cheesy line won't do it. I need to get this chick thinking sexually and fast. She walks over to the sink in her room to put some product in her hair. I grab her, and push her up against the door. I kiss her hard. She loves it. She smiles.
“I'll get Pocahontas.” I say.
“Cool.” She replies. It is cool.
Rinse and repeat, motherfucker. I go to Pocahontas's room, and she gets a forced tonguedown as well. I put in some extra work on this one. She's the weakest link in the chain, and she needs to be tempered in the fire of my lust for this to work.
“Come on,” I say, leading her by the hand, “let's go see Tank Girl.”
“Uh-huh. Cool.” She replies. It is cool.
They get in to the room. We're all together, and all alone. The girls start making small talk.
Then Tank Girl says...
“Did he kiss you too?”
Then Pocahontas says
“Yes, the dirty bastard.”
Then I say
“Yeah, and I'm not sorry. Let's have another three way kiss.”
Then I guide them together. Then Tank Girl kisses Pocahontas with a kind of masculine passion and intensity that I've never seen a woman display before. It's really intense. Pocahontas is pushed back with the force of it, and I catch her, kissing the side of her neck from behind. My hands wander all over her body, criss crossing with Tank Girl's.
Then I go to undo Pocahontas's bra, only to find it already undone.
Fair fucking play. Tank Girl's good.
I'm not one to kiss and tell, so I won't go too much into the specifics of what happened, except to say two things.
First off, the vibe of the threesome was in many ways like the vibe of the pickup. This was not me fucking two girls who wanted to be my sexual playthings. This was me and Tank Girl double teaming Pocahontas. I've never had a threesome with two guys – this is the only time I've done it with two girls (thus far), but the vibe was as if there was another man present. It was just that the other guy in the encounter looked exactly like Lori Petty from the film Tank Girl. This is important, perhaps the most important thing I learned from the whole encounter. If you've got two submissive girls and you want to fuck them both at once, their jealousy of each other is a minefield. If you're teaming up with a hot butch lesbian to pick up a chick, it's like a) you have a wing throughout the whole pickup, b) it's not all about you, and c) you get to see two girls naked at the same time. I winged Tank Girl, and she winged me. I wasn't possessive about her and Pocahontas, I let her have her fun. I made her feel hot. I laughed at her jokes. I engineered their first kiss. It wasn't easy though - at times, like when they touched each other's tits on the steps, and at other points a thousand times more X-rated, I had to fight down this instinctual feeling of jealousy that, mixed with arousal, threatened to paralyze me. It was like being a rabbit in headlights. It was really that intense.
So yeah, the first thing to say is this – help the dominant one pick up the submissive one and keep yourself in the loop, in control and leading the situation. Wing the dominant chick. She'll wing you.
And the second thing?
They could both deep throat.
Yeah you heard me, motherfucker. Both of them.
Heh heh heh.
Dual Induction Massage my hairy white ass.
(Credit - Ciaran (RSD Staff))