“… If you always keep your sword out of its sheath and swing it about, then no one will come near you and you will have no friends. But if you keep it always in its sheath, then your sword will become dull with rust; then people will underestimate you.”
-- Tsunetomo Yamamoto, “Bushido: The Way of the Samurai"
A couple months after my boot camp. I’m out with The Man Who Would Be Man Cannon (henceforth “The Man”).
Our safety set takes up practically a third of the venue we’re at, so we’re comfortable making raids on any set in striking distance. Numerous approaches. BT spikes aplenty. Some isolations.
I AMOG a white guy and isolate his HB8 target, just to show The Man the possibilities. The AMOG comes to me later, with hat in hand: “There’s a club upstairs, lotsa girls! We should go!”
They say Game recognizes Game. But Lame also recognizes Game.
A club-girl-type Asian woman, bleached hair and all, asks me for a light. I don’t have one, but that turns out not to be the point. As she tells me less than a minute later, “I thought you were Japanese … you’re so stylish! And SO tall!”
This woman is not my type at all – I’m into wholesome club girls – but hey, whatever’s in reach. The Game chooses me.
Despite my lack of a light, I steer her toward one after steering her away from bad fortune. She tries to use a candle for the task, but I advise her against it, telling her that to do so would be bad luck. (That’s a teacher attraction switch for ya.)
I’m kino-ing the hell out of this woman from the opening seconds of our interaction, but that should go without saying.
Her friend goes off to find the guy that she’s interested in, so isolating Blondie is child’s play. I seat her at the nearest table and I lock her knees in between mine.
I tease and flirt, which she loves. She loves to party, and she’s cocky. I give her a kiss on the cheek within five minutes, which she returns with a full-on French.
Turns out her tongue is unsatisfyingly short, which I’ve come to expect in Asian women. But it’s also dry, distended and covered in what feels like scales – a bigger turn-off than you can imagine.
She’s biting me in short order. Maybe that’s to distract me from the scales.
A side note: All of this takes place in front of a woman, mildly sexy, whom I saw earlier in the evening, whom I know from a volunteer activity we both participate in. This exchange comes about as a result:
Her: Hitting on foreign girls, that’s real nice.
Me: (a tone of sarcastic concern) Wait, wait, wait, wait … is that … is that … jealousy I hear?
Her: (a tone of genuine concern) No, no, no, no! I just thought … that you’re … cynical and sarcastic, like me. That you’d appreciate my sense of humor.
In that response, she not only retracted her statement out of penitence, but she also advertised her intentions to me. Well, too little, too late. I’m on the job.
Scaly Tongue Girl (STG) doesn’t particularly turn me on, but she’s cool, freaky and seems like a lock for some after-hours action. All I have to do is take care of the friend.
Her friend returns at just about the same time The Man does. Her friend, who’s more my type – taller, fuller-figured, more demure-looking, with natural black hair – is on the prowl for the club’s birthday boy of the evening.
“It’s my last night in New York,” she says, before scanning the room furtively. Say no more.
I’m quick to introduce her to my once and future wing, which would take care of three objectives – ridding myself of the biggest immediate obstacle, getting my friend laid, and getting my dick wet.
The Man, meet STG’s friend. Dick, meet Pussy.
I recognize that The Man, not having taken the boot camp at this point, probably lacks the tools to shatter this woman’s defenses, she being a real ball buster. Her body language has locked up, and her answers are roughly two words apiece. But I think I can maneuver the two into position for fool’s mate.
I bounce all of us as quickly as possible to the next location, a bar near The Man’s crib. (Easy access for him.) The longer we stay at Venue No. 1, the longer the friend will get attached to the idea of going home with Birthday Boy.
I realize, when the four of us sit to drink in the bar’s basement, that I’ve neglected to introduce The Man to the concept of shit-tests. The friend is throwing The Man some of the hardest shit-tests I’ve heard in my life: “You don’t get out much, do you?” “What’s with all the shit you’re wearing?” “You’re gay.”
He, unarmed, can do nothing but laugh in disgust and disbelief. At the first opportunity, he leans into me.
“If you’re gonna bang that chick, fine – I’ll stay and entertain the friend. But otherwise, I wanna get the fuck out of here,” he says.
The friend, soon after, also leans into me.
“Look, this is nothing personal against your friend,” she says, signaling that it’s definitely personal against my friend. “He’s SO not my type.”
She lists a few dealbreakers that are all concrete and logical – in other words, The Man hasn’t gamed her properly. Mind you, this was The Man before his rebirth as Man Cannon. A snakeskin of his current self.
As for STG, she’s docile. I got her hot and heavy back at Venue No. 1, so now it’s all a matter of keeping her in a stasis of comfort – light kino, deep conversation, occasional BT spiking.
The friend continues: “Here’s my situation. I really liked a guy that I met at the place we were at. It’s my last night in New York, so I want to leave with something.
“So why don’t you let your friend go home, then take me and STG back to the club and help me find that guy? Then you and STG can go and … do … something … together.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? We’re all adults here.”
I know exactly what she’s saying. And it appalls me. I’m nobody’s pimp. And I don’t need to get laid that bad. But most of all, I don’t desert a friend in the field. Not for all the pussy I could ask for. Women come by the dozen, but a good wing is sacred.
“Yes, I’m an adult,” I say in return. “But I’m also a gentleman. If you want to head back to the club, you’re more than welcome to. But my friend and I will be calling it a night.”
On the day 2, STG invites me over to her place. (Over drinks, I broach the topic of sex -- one-night stands and their many virtues, to be specific.)
But she also complains endlessly, expects me to pick up her purse when she drops it, and tries to use me to find a new weed hookup for herself.
And just like that, she’s tossed -- options won’t allow me to pick up chum like that. The company that she kept should have been indicator enough.
Last edited by Night Job on 14 Jan 2008, 16:11, edited 1 time in total.