I was looking through my belongings on my desk, and came across the Notebook. I flipped through its pages and realized how far I had fallen.
Once upon a time, I used to moonlight as a dating coach. I had an ad on Craigslist, met clients for brunch, went to their homes to raid their closets, taught them to properly fold pocket squares, dressed like a pretty girl so women would smell the preselection on my champions. I suppose I use the word “champions” loosely. Most times they’d talk to a girl at a venue and nothing would come of it. Only my long time clients really made it to first-date bangs, but I only had a handful of those. My rates were anywhere from $50 to $150 an hour. As you can imagine, the champs had deep pockets.
Anyhow, I looked at all the notes I had written. How venue changes get a girl more invested in the date (having her pay for the first round of drinks is another good way of doing that). Kino at the right moment. How to make a conversation flow and how to make silences pregnant with anticipation. I sound like a douchebag player. Because, once upon a time, I played the game.
Whenever I met a client (who wasn’t some creepy Craigslist stinker trying to solicit me for sex, at least half of them) I always started with this:
A few things: I’m not here to have sex with you; I’m here to help you fuck other women. I don’t have a magical pill that will make you a pussy magnet; you’re gonna spend some time in the trenches to earn your stripes. Crashing and burning will be a far better teacher than my criticism. And you should never take advice about women from a chick.
As a girl who sees the strings moving the marionettes, I thought I’d always see what was coming at me. Nope. No. Wrong. REALLY WRONG. I became comfortable and fell into Sucker Land. I was one of those girls who fell prey to ME.
I have other things to study tonight. Douchebaggery things.