Why Can't I Use a Smiley Face Read online

  Virgle invited us both to his apartment, where I knew I could fuck the cougar on his couch, but she had to look after her friend so she denied his offer. She kept offering me her number but I refused to take it. She wanted to feel the anticipation of waiting next to the phone in some romantic way when there wasn’t a romantic bone in her body.

  She said, “If you want me to leave, if I mean nothing to you, and what we had didn’t affect you, I’ll leave.”

  I looked at Virgle then back at her, saying nothing. She walked away and we broke into laughter.

  I figured it was done for good, but five minutes later she was back, saying, “I just wanted to come back to see where my friend is, and look you’re really cold, and I still don’t believe this.”

  “What’s the point if we can’t have sex?” I asked.

  “Does it have to be tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know, there’s alleys, and I have condoms. Why are you so closed to adventure?”

  If she had been a dude and showed that type of desperation, she would have been blacklisted by all women in the city.

  The three of us walked to the front of the burger place where the blonde was talking to a whole new set of guys. She took a break to grace us with her presence. Virgle once again urged us to go to the cougar’s parents’ house and hang out while he waited in the car. The blonde looked at me and said, “You’re letting your friend take care of you like that? You should take responsibility for yourself!”

  “You must be kidding,” I said. “Your friend has been babysitting your ass all night, trying to protect you from getting raped, calling you constantly to make sure you’re not doing something stupid, grabbing your hand and taking you to safety when guys are groping your ass, and you’re telling me that I need to watch out for myself? You’re fucking retarded.”

  She said nothing, just huffed and went back inside the burger place. You’d think that I would have lost out on the cougar by calling her friend retarded, but if anything it made her want me more.

  “Just get my number,” she pleaded, but I hemmed and hawed, giving her just enough hope to keep the interaction going. Then I told Virgle I was going to take a cab and he didn’t need to drive me to the opposite side of the city.

  After he left, I told the cougar, “I’m bored. I’m going to take a cab home since there’s no place to hang out.”

  I hailed a cab, and while I was negotiating the fare back to Maryland, I felt a tug on my arm. It was the cougar, this time being very sweet and trying to turn me on by touching me and kissing my neck. My boner came back.

  And then she killed it again.

  She said, “I’ve dated a lot of guys and I’ve had many one-night stands, but I like you more than any of them. That’s why I want to date you.” She complimented me by saying I was the sucker who got to take her to dinner while lesser men got fast sex. Sometimes I wonder if all the American girl hate I write are exaggerations, but at that moment I met a specimen who was validating my life’s work.

  “Okay, I’ll get your number,” I said.

  She smiled broadly as she gave it to me, saying, “Call me, so I’ll have yours.”

  “Oh no, I want it to be surprise.”

  We sucked more face and then I got into the cab. On the ride home, I told the Ethiopian driver how crazy American girls were. He agreed. I deleted her number from my phone, amused that my nice guy personality had completely evaporated after just one night back in DC.

  The Bang

  The next night I met up with Virgle and our friend, Rookie. On the subway ride to the first spot, my mind was racing through scenarios of how to cut down women based on what I had experienced my first night out. I was thinking not of game to get laid, but game to ruin a girl’s night.

  We went to a Latin-themed bar. It was full of second-rate Latinas who wouldn’t be able to compete in most of the South American cities I’ve visited. After Virgle pointed out a mustache on one, I caught Rookie up on what had happened with the cougar and her friend.

  “She was old, but her body was tight,” I said.

  “The old girls have to keep it tight, or they got no chance,” Virgle added.

  “She had no breasts, though,” I said. “And actually, her ass was kind of small.”

  “Nah, a girl needs to have tiggs,” Virgle said. “You gotta go for the titty fuck.”

  “I haven’t tried that before,” I said.

  “What? Dude, you need to do the titty fuck. The funny thing is that no girl complains when you spit on her chest, mount her, and then tigg her. They squeeze their breasts and bend their neck down so the tip of your dick goes inside their mouth. But they have to be real tiggs. I tried it with fake tiggs and it’s too hard. Fake tiggs don’t mold around your dick like real ones do. Like look at that girl over there. Those are perfect tiggs.”

  He pointed to a Latina with a black shirt that wrapped around her neck, yielding a hole in her upper chest where cleavage was popping out.

  Virgle said, “That’s like a tigg glory hole right there. Just go up to her and say, ‘Excuse me, miss,’ then spit on her chest and start going at it.” He thrusted his hips and made sex sounds. “Guys, it’s so funny when you fuck a girl’s tiggs. It’s better than anything, you need to try that shit.”

  The one good thing about me and Virgle is that we never go for the same girl. He likes tiggs and I like ass, and in every pair of girls there’s usually one who has the better ass and one who has the bigger breasts. It seems to always work out.

  In Europe I would never approach groups. I singled out the girl I wanted, even in a pair, and talked to her without being bothered for at least a couple minutes. In the States, it doesn’t work like that. Wingmen play bigger roles. When I did my Euro style game with an approach at the Latin bar, the girl I didn’t like took over the conversation and did all the talking. I was friendly to both, but I didn’t know how long I could keep it going. I felt like a jester.

  I did one of my unconscious moves when talking to women in loud venues—I put my hand on the friend’s shoulder to stress something I was saying. She then acted like my hand was molten hot lead and shifted her body to show her displeasure. I moved it away and gave her a blank look. I had never got that response before. There was no point in continuing.

  I turned to see Virgle and Rookie standing nearby. “I had trouble talking to them both at the same time,” I said.

  “Bring us in! That’s why we’re here,” Virgle replied. I had forgotten how we used to wing each other.

  We went to another bar, one of our old favorites. It used to be a hipster spot but now it attracted a lot of yuppies and preppies from Arlington. The room was dark but all I could see was thick women. At first glance, a lot of the more petite girls seemed to have good bodies, but then I’d see a baby bump above their pussy area and fat arms that wobbled when they moved.

  The style that women were rocking had a function to conceal blubber, not to arouse men. Five years earlier I would have been tricked until it came time to intimacy, after I had invested a lot of time into an approach, but there was no tricking me now.

  In the past, girls only deceived men via Internet dating sites where they would upload perfect pictures that didn’t represent who they were. Now they go to dim bars and wear fat-concealing clothes. The average man needs to touch early or have x-ray ability to find out what he’s dealing with.

  The only positive development was that there were fewer land whales than I had expected, but well over 50% of the girls were overweight. The government wouldn’t classify them as fat, but in Eastern Europe they would have been shamed into an eating disorder. Their arms were often bigger than mine. I started scanning for a unique trait or a flash of feminine spark that would motivate me to start a conversation. If a girl was going to be thick, there had to be something special about her for me to work.

  Rookie followed me to the patio. “Remember when there used to be cute girls here?” I asked.

  He lo
oked around at the expanse of mediocrity and said, “That’s why we get drunk now.”

  “I used to do well from this spot. We’d chill here and approach girls who came within our reach, but the past two years I worked differently. I went to clubs, waited by the bar, and approached girls who came to buy a drink. There was constant movement and replenishment, but here it’s so static. Look at all these groups—they aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Sometimes you have to wait a while until something happens.”

  So we waited a while. Then two girls came to my right. They were thick and unapproachable in my mind, but they started talking in what sounded like Swedish. I had lived in Sweden for one month.

  “Excuse me, are you two from Sweden?” I asked.

  “No, we’re German.”

  “I always confuse the two.”

  They lived in North Carolina and had come to party for the weekend. One was very nice, smiling and encouraging me to continue, but her friend seemed to be having a bad time, frowning at the crowd.

  “We’re going now, maybe we’ll see you later,” the nice one said.

  I looked at Rookie. I had forgotten to bring him in, but I doubted if he could have done much with the other girl.

  There were no more approaches to make, no pretty girls to check out. I could have talked to Rookie and Virgle some more, but we didn’t need to come to a dim, crowded bar to talk. Virgle suggested we go somewhere else, but as we headed for the exit, I spotted a petite girl standing on the outskirts of a large group.

  I stopped to get a closer look from about ten feet away. She was pretty with a slight Latina look. Black hair, an hourglass shape, a thick butt, and not much in the way of tiggs. She was the best-looking girl I had seen all night, and for the first time, after more than the handful of approaches since coming back, my dick actually wanted to make it work.

  I walked up to her and tapped her on the shoulder three times. “You don’t look like you’re from here,” I said. “You look like you’re from Argentina.”

  “My mom is from Spain.”

  “I was close! A lot of people from Argentina have Spanish ancestry. I lived in Argentina for a few months, and your face is similar to a lot of girls there.”

  She seemed mildly interested that I had lived in South America, and for fun I said a few things in Spanish. She reciprocated. I don’t want to say she was cold, but she was giving me only slight eye contact while answering in short sentences. It wasn’t quite enough to where I thought she wanted me to leave, but it didn’t give me much hope that I’d be demolishing her pussy later.

  “Are you from DC?” she asked.

  “Yes, I was born here, but now I live in Europe.” I put my hand on her shoulder and said, “I’m only here for a month, so we can’t fall in love and have babies.”

  She smiled and asked me where I lived.

  “Poland,” I replied, then went on to tell her about some of the countries I had visited. When I found out she was from California, I asked, “What’s the difference between California and DC?”

  “It’s just different.”

  “I’m sure it is, but in what way?” I honestly wanted to know.

  “People in California are more laid back.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  If she had asked me the difference between DC and Zagreb or DC and Helsinki, I could have gone on for an hour or more, bringing in schools of thought from anthropology, sociology, and linguistics, but she offered me a comment that my 16-year-old brother, who had never even been to California, could have proffered.

  She told me she left California because of her “career.” The last thing I wanted to know about was her paper-pushing job, but I could tell it was important to her and would help with the connection. I asked what her job was.

  She replied, “digital strategy.”

  I thought it was only guys that made up job titles to impress women, but she was doing it to me. I was certain her job is to spam consumers with corporate propaganda. I had no doubt I would have been offered a card if I asked, something shiny and self-important to conceal the fact that she was actually a PR flunkie who crafted tweets and made advertising banners.

  It didn’t take long to get into a debate about the concept of family and career. She said that people can have both, but I disagreed, saying, “Family or career. Pick one.”

  “You’re wrong. There are women who have both.”

  “Show me her kids and let’s see how much time mommy spends with them. While it’s easy to have a family and make sure everyone is well-clothed and fed, it takes a full commitment to raise children who are getting enough love and guidance, especially early in life when their development is most important. Putting kids in daycare isn’t family at all.”

  “So you think a woman should stay home like a slave?”

  “I wouldn’t enter a marriage unless my income was sufficient to support her and the kids. She has the choice to work, but I don’t know of a single woman that would rather work in an office eight hours a day than be with her children.”

  “So you want a woman to be dependent on a man?”

  “Woman are still dependent on men.”

  “I’m not dependent on a man, not like women of the past.”

  “You’re even more dependent, actually. Who owns the company you work for, a woman or man?”

  “Well, a man.”

  “Every two weeks, your paycheck is given to you by a man for trading your labor in his service. You eat and live because of the money he gives you. The modern woman has exchanged one tyrant in the house, who happened to love them, for a tyrant who doesn’t love them and can send them packing if quarterly earnings are low enough that he has to postpone the purchase of his new yacht. I also see that you have an iPhone. Who owns Apple? Male shareholders. You pay for cell phone service, cable, Netflix, and student loans. You pay men, men, and more men. You give a big chunk of your time, the most important thing in life, to enrich the boss man, and then the money you get from working forty hours a week goes to even more men, yet you’re telling me you’re independent? That’s interesting.”

  I took a sip of my drink. It took about ten seconds for her to muster an “I don’t think I agree” answer without giving any reason why.

  I said, “Whereas in the past women were in the house, doing three hours of housework a day, with a lot of free time to pursue their own interests while the kids were in school, you have to do three times as much work for even less happiness, with a lower chance of having a stable family. But as long as you’re happy. Would you say you’re happy?”

  “Yes, I’m happy.”

  “Then great, who cares what I think? Cheers to happiness.” I lifted my drink and she reluctantly tapped it.

  In Scandinavia she would have turned away from me, but in America it’s not as damaging to disagree with women. You get bonus points for being your own man. The balance of having your own opinions and not offending a girl can be difficult, and I think I went too far because of how quickly she clammed up. There was an awkward silence and she started looking away. I should’ve kept the conversation more fluffy, maybe talking about the weather in California or the new season of The Bachelor.

  After a couple minutes of stale conversation I was ready to jump ship. I said, “I may have annoyed you. I don’t want to bother you so I think I’m going to find my friends.”

  “You’re not bothering me,” she said.

  “Okay. In that case I’ll get a drink.”

  I took a step toward the bar and she turned toward her friend. I gently grabbed her arm and told her to come with me to the bar. She complied and I asked her what she wanted. I ordered a round and she introduced a girlfriend who actually lived in Poland. I said, “I should have met her instead!”

  She smiled and took a sip from the beer I had bought her. Usually I would have gotten cockblocked in a group as big as hers, but the group was so large that they kind of forgot about her.

  “
So tell me what it’s like to live in DC,” I asked.

  “It’s okay, but I want to go back to California. I’m just here to work for a couple years.”

  “What do you think of the guys here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have an opinion?”

  “Well, I like the guys in California better. They aren’t as shy.”

  “You’re not an unattractive woman. I’d imagine that you get approached a lot by guys in a bar like this.”

  “Actually, I don’t get approached much.”

  As I looked around, I couldn’t see a girl who was more attractive than her, though I did see many somewhat attractive guys talking to thick women.

  “I think DC guys are intimidated by thin women,” I said. “I hate to say it, but fat women get approached more. It’s easier on a guy’s ego to know that he won’t immediately get rejected if the woman isn’t very attractive.”

  I rested my hand on the side of her hip, her feminine figure covered by tight jeans. I asked how she got them on—if she wiggled into them while standing or if she had to lay down on her bed and slide them up. I couldn’t believe that guys weren’t throwing themselves at her, but we were at a yuppie bar. If she had been in a K Street club with a bunch of Middle Eastern dudes then I’m sure that by the time I got to her, the bitch shield would have been at full strength.

  Besides the whole feminism-enslaved-women bit, my game was soft. I didn’t compliment, but I didn’t come close to insulting. I was being a good listener whenever she offered sentences of more than ten words and I did my best to be entertaining. I also kept my flirtations physical in the form of touch instead of verbal like I did with European girls. Being flirty with an American can be risky, especially if she construes that you’re falling in love with her. I didn’t want her to get “creeped out” by real affection. I had to be cold on purpose in order to experience sex, the warmest form of intimacy.