The Game - Practice at G Lounge

I've read THE GAME. A ton of guys my age have, since it was on the NY Times bestsellers list for a while. I'm sure most people have also seen THE PICKUP ARTIST on VH1, which takes all the concepts from THE GAME and tosses them into a ridiculous reality television show. The book itself was a thrilling read, and while the notion of being able to pick up any kind of woman that I wanted was intoxicating, I couldn't help but feel like THE GAME had something sour going for it. The most redeeming factor of the entire story was that the protagonist, Styles, actually found love at the end of all his adventures in random pickups and meaningless sex.

 

The methods protrayed in THE GAME were just that. A game. They were created for the sole purpose of manipulating women into believing certain things about you, and therefore coaxing them into bed. There was very little about what you're supposed to do after you've actually nailed the girl.

 

People are often astounded by my knowledge on the subject of relationships without actually having been in a serious one. Among friends, I'm the "go to" man when smooth sailing relationships are about to hit rough seas. And it's great that I'm able to help them! I just can't manage to get to the relationship part myself. And after much rumination, I decided that even though THE GAME works for some...it doesn't work for me. I would have to find another way to get past the initial roadblocks of meeting women.

 

Which brings me to last Friday night. My buddy, Ed, texts me: "G Lounge tonight." I was fully prepared to chill at my sister's apartment with me, my pet rabbit, my laptop, and some HBO. Y'know, get some writing done, relax without my fucking parents being around. A chill Friday. But, I was feeling a little sorry for myself, having no set plans on this Black Friday, so I inquired further about G Lounge.

 

Ed: "C'mon man, it's gonna be a good time. I'm meeting up with some friends who are celebrating some girl's birthday there."

 

I scoffed a bit. I didn't really enjoy clubs, especially ones as pretentious as G Lounge. I had never been, but my brother and sister frequent G Lounge, and if they frequent a club, then I know exactly what kind of crowd is going to be there.

 

Kurt: "Is there a cover?"

Ed: "Probably $20."

 

OY! I'm a little broke at the moment, so spending twenty bucks to get into a place I don't really want to go, to be surrounded by people I don't really like, have a shitty time, and spend ten dollars on every drink, didn't really sound like a great idea. I told Ed that I was probably going to pass on the invitation and just spend the night by myself.

 

Thirty seconds after I hung up with Ed, I stopped myself. All I could think was, "Wow. That was really, really negative. Why did I automatically think I was going to have a shitty time? Why did I automatically think I wouldn't like the people? Why did I automatically hate a club I'd never been to?"

 

Fuck it. I called Ed back.

 

Kurt: "Ed. I realized that I was just being extremely negative, and I decided that I'm not going to be anymore. Let's down a six pack and go have a fucking good time."

Ed: "YES! Can't wait to see you buddy!"

 

I hadn't seen Ed in months, so I at least owed him my company. We met up at my sister's apartment, shared a six pack, and had a good time catching up. The slight buzz had kicked in and we were ready for the club. Laughing, smiling, walking confidently the whole way there, I knew I had myself a great attitude and a great wing man. I told myself I was going to do three things this evening:

 

1.) Walk slow.

2.) Smile. A lot.

3.) Never be the first to break eye contact when you lock eyes with a girl.

 

And the worked. Before these tiny changes began to take effect, Raphael, Ed's friend whom we met up with, was an apparent ladies' man, and provided us with small commentaries on how to take advantage of the club's social atmosphere. He talked about never remaining in one spot for too long, keep moving, like a shark. He pointed out traps that girls laid, ones that were used to turn guys down in order to boost self-esteem, other that were used to get guys to buy them drinks. In a way, it really was a game that I couldn't avoid. And all of a sudden this just felt like practice, like it wasn't the real thing. And any remaining anxiety was swept away.

 

Simply smiling and walking slow was boosting my confidence. It made me feel calmer, more relaxed. And every time I locked eye with a girl, gave them a tiny smile, and they looked away before I did, I felt even stronger. They were the intimidated ones, not me. When the girls started to smile back, I knew I was getting somewhere.

 

My first interaction of the night wasn't particularly spectacular. The girl's method of getting my attention was basically checking me and spilling my drink all over her. She was so drunk that everything she slurred made it sound like she was speaking another language. The first thing she said to me was: "Somebody spilled their drink all over me."

 

My retort was: "Uh, yeah. That was my drink, because you just bum rushed me."

 

I don't think she understood, because she started drunkenly caressing my arm and spouting out intoxicated gibberish. I managed to ignore her long enough that she got the hint and went back to dancing with her friends. What happened next was the highlight of my evening. I was dancing, by myself, because I was feeling free and comfortable enough to, when I caught eyes with a girl who belonged to a bachelorette party. I kept my gaze until she was the one that looked away. I smiled at my small success. Moments later, she comes up to me and yells over the loud music: "Why were you looking at me?"

 

And my instantaneous, and surprising, response was: "Because I think you're pretty."

 

She laughed. Not in the "oh my god, that's so cheesy" way, but in the "oh my god, I'm totally flattered" kind of way. And this girl didn't leave me alone for the next half hour. We danced. We talked. She introduced me to her friends. She complimented me on how I dressed. She complimented me on the beard that I'm growing. And when it was time for her to leave with her party, without numbers exchanged, I didn't mind. It wasn't about that. It was about practicing the first steps. And I felt great that I had improved just a little.

 

Ed hooked up with some random girl on the dance floor, also not getting her number. He, too, was on the quest to learn, so that was a major milestone for him as well. We laughed with one another, got piss drunk, and were both really glad I had decided to come out.

 

The night led us to a 3:00am inebriated meal at McDonald's, where Ed made fun of me for recently having a kidney stone, and then proceeded to ask me if I had any percosets left. Neither him nor I are drug users of any variety, so it was funny when I asked him how much he was willing to pay for them. He said five bucks a pill. I said twenty. He shouted that that was WAY too expensive, but he didn't know what the hell anything cost, and neither did I. This led to us asking a black guy who was selling pills IN the McDonald's how much percosets go for, while he kept on thinking we actually wanted to buy percosets from him. Some other guy started making comments in the middle of our drunken exchange, which caused the black man to preach something about Obama, creating a massive alcoholic applause, during which Ed and I laughed hysterically, before he left.

 

That ended our night. We never found out how much percosets go for. But we decided we needed to do this more often. The consensus was tri-weekly.

 

Because we're both too broke for weekly.

 

-Kurt Riley