When 3 Makeouts and 2 Pulls Is Not Enough...

Like... seriously...

I believe I am a professional. I was one of the very first Indie Pro PUAs to ever put forth a Night Game Syllabus and show what a prospective student could expect from a true, dyed in the wool Pick Up Aritst.

That we are not some tame sheep to be hired, but a seriously pissed off beast whose instincts are reigned in for the benefit of the masses. Because, and let's be honest here, a TRUE blue PUA is not someone you introduce to family, friends, and hearth.

He's not someone you brag about to your friends because he could- and would without any guilt- bite the shit out of you without any remorse and steal away your woman with naught but a snicker.

So, having recognized this little cognizant fact of reality, it behooves us to ask ourselves, "WHY THE BLOODY HELL ARE THESE GIRLS MESSING WITH ME?"

Seriously.

I make out with one girl. Another girl wants to- guaranteed- go home with me. My approach coach is making out with another... he's literally being pulled by a tall blonde to the bar and being dragged out a wooden orifice of a lacquered door imagined from a George Romero movie and his worst constipational Sam Raimi forest cabin nightmare.

And the students are watching in this awed silence. I can see their faces, "What the fuck just happened to all of our instructors? And how can I get me some of that action?!"

Which only lasts so far and lasts so long before I literally throw this one girl- imagine the Asian chick from Chuck- onto one of the students. Like Hudson to Sigourney, I scream, "Take her! Take her!"

And then some red, manicured CLAW grabs my face to pull me back into a dark, hidden abyss that is the dance floor.

10 minutes later, I have this svelte Asian girl sitting in my lap, PINNING me against the couch like an MMA Champion, sucking my face, and saying how bad a boyfriend I am because I have this imaginary stalker girlfriend. I really don't know what she's talking about.

My life flashes before my eyes and I am left with the sad realization that-alas- I have no choice but to- wholeheartedly and blindly- agree with her lest I suffocate to death as my tongue is being sucked through the whirlpool of her tongue. As if that's not enough, the Hoover Vacuum is on the industrial strength setting.

If the world's panacea could be discovered by sucking the very marrow from my bones and cavities of my molars, she's unapologeticly hell-bent on grinding and kissing me into a red, lipstick, smear of submission.

I have planned nothing of this as I stumble dazed from the club to a bizarre MJ-esque accompaniment of Shakira howls and cacophony.

Quite frankly, I'm still both exhausted and tired from the Australian bootcamp rolling into this one and my body hasn't gotten used to the time difference. But I press on to my own, amusing misfortune and abused lips.

Because apparently, 3 makeouts and 2 pulls is not enough...

Fuck me.

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