Free A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist by Tony D Page A

me.
    “Make any sales yet?”
    “Nah. I’m shit at this job,” she said.
    “You’ll get better.”
    “Nah, I’m only here until I make enough to go back to Thailand .”
    “You’ve been to Thailand ?”
    “Yes, and Laos .”
    “Cool.”
    “Sebastian!” The fat man yelled. “Get on the board! We need another one from you. Lots of people need jobs in this city.”
    “Yes sir!”
    I pretended to make a call.
    “So, are you going out tonight?” I asked.
    “Maybe. I don’t know. What’s going on?”
    “Well, me and my friends might barbeque a dolphin later.”
    “What?”
    “It’s the new thing in Montreal .”
    “That’s gross.”
    “Umm.”
    She turned away from me.
    “I’m joking,” I said.
    “You’re weird.”
    Good job.
    I don’t think I’ve met a girl in my life that didn’t think I was weird or creepy until we had a decent conversation. Being smart is a curse. Obviously, I’m not barbequing a fucking dolphin. Maybe I needed a new line.
    I wouldn’t make any commission until my third sale, and by
noon
I’d still only made one. I just wanted the day to end so I could go home, write, read, then go out and meet new girls.
    Most people hate their jobs. Some pretend they don’t. They repress the truth to protect their ego. Some people turn their jobs into addictions, maybe they made good money, maybe it filled a void, maybe it made them happy. Mine sure didn’t. No job had ever fulfilled me. I was just surviving—making investment capital for the Reptilians.
    By lunch break my eyes were bloodshot, and I was nursing a pronounced headache. The buzzer went off like a prison alarm and we filed out like sedated bovines for our thirty minutes of grazing. Some stood by the staff pool table and ate sandwiches out of bags, some smoked and gossiped on the front step, some went to Tim Horton’s, or Starbucks, or any of the common establishments to spend what little profit they had earned that morning on fatty foods. I went to the park and smoked a joint and stared up at the tall grey buildings and wondered if the people at the top were having a better time than we were. I didn’t feel sorry for myself; every decision I’d ever made put me here. Now I just needed a new decision to lead me down a different path, one out of slavery.
    But first, I needed to get laid.
     

Chapter 11
     
    Confessions (Sex)
     
    Olivia was busy packing for her summer vacation, but I desperately wanted to bang her, so that night I invited myself to her place. It was a disaster zone. There was garbage strewn across the floors, the beds were covered in clothes and magazines and makeup and guitars and records.
    “Nice place,” I said.
    “Yeah, it’s pretty disgusting for sure. My roommates just left for home too,” she replied, pushing a pile of clothes off her couch, onto the floor.
    We talked about small things, unimportant things, finished a bottle of cheap wine and started kissing. It happened very naturally. She took off her shirt, I undid her bra. Her boobs sprung out—pure joy; just perfect eighteen year old boobs. They were curved like little ski jumps, and smooth as silk. I nestled my face between them, kissed and lightly bit her nipples—she giggled and stroked my hair. I opened a rubber, rolled it on, sat her on my lap and slid into her. We were both a bit anxious. I hadn’t had sex since Esther, and sometimes women get very nervous before sex. I mean, I get it. We go inside of you. It’s the classic Sci-Fi infestation plot.
    She bounced slowly on my lap until we picked up a good rhythm. We rocked together and increased our pace and intensity. I grabbed her hair and lightly bit her neck. We moaned in appreciation of each other. She was very wet and tight. It didn’t last very long—maybe two minutes. I came quickly. I just wanted to get it over with to prove it was happening. I performed poorly, but she didn’t seem to mind. Afterwards… relief; like all the work and bullshit and time I’d invested