I’m going to be honest with you so you don’t feel that bad about yourself tomorrow. The truth is you never had a chance, when you think about it. That’s not to say you didn’t have a choice. You did, you could have walked away whenever you wanted, and you could have ended it with a polite, “nice to meet you”. You could have just given me your phone number. But I presented myself in such a way that you didn’t want our interaction to end. It all seemed pretty harmless, a chance encounter of two people who just happened to hit it off on a night like this in a bar like this. What you didn’t know and what I didn’t tell you is I’ve done this before. More precisely I’ve had this same conversation before. Not with you but with girls like you. For the past ten years of my life I’ve been practicing this skill, I’ve honed it, I know it frontwards and backwards. It doesn’t matter the answers you give me, they’re all variations of the same thing. This is like one of those choose your own adventure books but it doesn’t matter because all the endings are you in my bed and feeling slightly slutty in the morning.

Oh you know what a pick up artist is? You watched a show once with someone with a fuzzy hat wearing guy liner? You read something recently about a guy driving around San Francisco in some rape van? There are many ways to pick up women, to use game. Think of those guys using a grenade method of what I do. Sometimes you’ll notice guys talking up every single girl in the place before they speak to you, that’s more of the shotgun method. My technique is more like ricin, I’ve got it down to a science. You won’t feel anything you won’t realize what’s happening until its happened. Trust me; I’ve been doing this for while. I’ve been mastering the art of meeting complete strangers, women and then talking them out of their clothes in the same night.  It’s reflex.

I didn’t pick you by chance, I saw you and you exhibited qualities that based on my knowledge led me to believe you’d be more susceptible to going home with me tonight. I didn’t hit on your slutty friend, the loud one with the super short dress and over exposed cleavage. She the distraction, the one drunk guys assume will be a sure thing only to realize after buying her drinks and talking all night that she’s an attention whore and actually doesn’t put out. And if she did she’d probably suck in bed anyway because guys are so happy to bang her she doesn’t ever have to do anything.  No, it was going to be you, I know everything about you. I know sometimes you feel invisible next to her, like nobody really sees you. Sure guys may hit on you but not the type you want to hit on you. You’re on POF or OKC. You’ve been on a few dates but you find most of the guys boring and insufferable. Most of the guys you talk to think they’re important because of the job they do in a city like this. You want someone who gets you. You’re lonely but you go through the motions of doing things normal people do to make themselves not feel lonely. That’s why you’re at a place like this with friends you don’t really even like, girls that wouldn’t hesitate to ditch you and go home with the first cute guy that came up and offered to buy them a drink. It’s happened.

How does this happen? I’ll come up to you at the bar and simply ask how’s it going? Nothing fancy, no neg, no funny or mind blowing gambit. I’ll be wearing a dark suit, a dark shirt and matching pocket square. I’ll have on dress shoes that are clean. I’ll be wearing strong cologne that you notice when I’m close to you. We’ll go through all the small talk of two people getting to know each other. You’ll tell me I have an interesting name and ask where it come from. We’ll tell each other where we went to school, where we grew up, what we like and don’t like about the city. You’ll ask me what I do and I’ll tell you I’m a profession nerd that looks at spreadsheets all day. I’ll joke about how being a financial analyst isn’t as sexy as it sounds. You’ll laugh; you’ll pick up on my sense of humor very quickly. I’ll bring up being very close to my younger sisters. This will make you think of me in a more nurturing role as man who’s capable of feelings and is emotionally available (I’m not). I’ll offer to buy you another drink, you’ll say yes. You’ll drink at a faster pace than normal, because the more you drink the more the alcohol will allow you to open up. Soon you will forget we just met 30 minutes ago. The crowd around us will disappear; it will feel like we came here on a date, hazy like the beginning of a dream.  You’ll find yourself telling me things that you usually don’t share with strangers in a bar. You’ll tell me about past failed relationships, about your brother serving over sea and how you have bad dreams of something happening to him. About the trouble period you went through when your parents divorced. About the coke habit you developed in college that you hid from your family. You’ll be surprised how easy it is for you to tell me these things because I’ll listen, I’ll look you in the eye and tell you to tell me more. Around this time you’ll notice that I have curly eyelashes and high cheekbones and in a certain light I look like that one actor but you can’t remember his name. Don’t worry I get that a lot. You won’t notice that while we’ve been talking my hand has touched and lingered on your forearm, that I’ve put it on your hips and waist. That you’ve laughed at my jokes and put your hands on my chest or felt my abs. I work out but I never talk about working out. I have a way of looking at you while I talk and undressing you with my eyes.

I’ll grab you by the hand and lead you to another part of the bar, maybe downstairs to the dance floor. You’ll grab it back and follow me wherever. You’re having a good time, you’re opening up, and I’m different from most guys. You’re friends will come up and ask if you’re ok. You’ll say yes, you’re fine. They’ll come up one last time and tell you that they’re tired and ready to leave; they’ll ask what are you going to do. You’ll tell them that you’re ok and you think you’re going to stay a little longer… with me. The lights will come on and I won’t say much, except let’s get out of here. You’re only objection maybe if I’m ok to drive. I’m not, YOLO. I’ll bring you back to my apartment that looks like every other apartment in the city. My roommates are asleep. I’ll open up a bottle of cheap wine. I’ll take off my jacket, you’ll take off your shoes, and we’ll have a few sips, surf the TV for something to watch. You’re knees will be curled up and facing toward mine on the couch. There will be an awkward pause, I’ll look at you, and we’ll start kissing. It’ll get hot and heavy very quickly. I’ll get up and lead you by the hand to my bedroom. In the morning you’ll feel guilty. You will just realize that you actually really don’t know me, that you talked to me for two hours and you’re here naked in my bed. You’ll get up, look for your bra, and look for your underwear, how many condom wrappers are on the floor, how many times did we have sex? Didn’t you tell yourself you’d stop doing things like this, aren’t you getting too old for random hook ups with guys you just met? Don’t you want more?

I want to tell you this now. I can see you from here, sipping your beer while your slutty friend tells you an over exaggerated story about something and your other friend pretends to care. I’ve told you all of this, exactly what I’m going to do and how I’m going to do it. Even though you know what I’m going to do, it doesn’t matter, the ending is still the same. I’ll walk right up to you, introduce myself as VK, and in the end you never had a chance.