Why I’m not a PUA

If you’re young and unsuccessful with women, I suppose it’s tempting to turn yourself into a jewelery-bedazzled social robot. But you’ll be better off in the long run if you put the routines and hair glitter away, and focus on becoming a man.

I strongly believe that any man who wants to improve his life should immediately learn game as a first step. This applies to men who are 18 or 60 years old, men who want to bring sluts home from the bar, or men who want to find one good, traditional wife to run their house and raise their kids, men who are handsome and smart, or dumb and ugly as shit. If you haven’t spent 20+ hours absorbing the core teachings of game, everything else you do to improve your life will be a waste of time. You can get as rich and healthy and smart as you want, but if you don’t understand female psychology, you still won’t get laid.

(And really, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Deep down, beneath every surface motivation and rationalization we make, there is one driving force pulsating from our hindbrains, ordering us to do things that increase our status and get us laid. Tell yourself something different if you want, but you’ll be lying.)

So I’ve spent many hours reading about Game. Of course, I’ve read the classics, and spent some time on the forums. I also read several blogs that frequently touch on aspects of game. In the future, if I learn about a new book on the topic that seems interesting to me, I’ll probably buy it.

But I don’t consider myself a “pick-up artist.” And I never will.

Why not? Well, here’s a story about a Pick-Up Artist.

*

A couple of years ago, I ran into an old friend. This guy was my age and we played on the same football team in high school. He was nice guy, but he was also a bit of a loser. Socially awkward. Fearful. Terminally hunched shoulders. He wasn’t “that guy” who everyone picks on (if you’ve ever played on a high school sports team, you know who I’m talking about) but he wasn’t one of the “cool kids” by a long shot.

I saw him just past midnight on a Friday night as we both walked into a bar at around the same time. I yelled out his name (Let’s call him Mike). He yelled back, “(Frost)! How’s it going!!?”

We caught up for a few minutes. He had just finished his undergrad, was working as an engineer, life was great. Just great!

“So who are you here with?” I asked, and I noticed he kind of dodged the question. He was dressed louder than most, but not outrageously so: Bright orange polo, stylishly faded jeans, two necklaces, a watch, 2 bracelets, lots of gel in his hair. His energy and demeanor were also different than I remembered. His posture was exaggeratedly good, he never broke eye contact, and he talked and moved like he had just railed a line or two in the bathroom.

I was with a small group of friends at the time: A guy and a girl I had met recently, and one of my best friends Jim and his girlfriend Jane, also a close friend. I introduced Mike to everyone, and he “opened” them with a few scripted questions that came off a little forced. Nothing too awkward though, and we all chatted for a minute before heading to the bar to get drinks.

Mike was full of energy and enthusiasm. “Let’s do shots! C’mon, let’s do shots!” He tried to buy the whole round, but grudgingly accepted when I covered half of them. One of the other guys bought another round of shots, and then another bought everyone beers and mixed drinks. For the next hour or two, we all laughed, danced and had a blast.

A little while later, Mike and I were at the bar. I commented, “That’s a pretty serious pendant you’ve got there” while pointing at his necklace. He shrugged, gave me a knowing smirk and said, “Chick crack!” I smiled back but made an expression like I was trying to figure out what he said. Obviously I had heard the phrase before, but I didn’t want to have a conversation about Game within potential earshot of my other friends. So I played dumb.

A bit later, Mike pulled out his camera. “Let’s all get a picture!” I thought, yup, he wants his Facebook profile filled with pictures of fun, hot people. Social Proof, don’tcha know? So we all lined up for a picture. Mike gave his camera to a random and got in the frame.

We had arranged ourselves in a disorganized row, everyone with an arm or two over the person next to them. *Snap.* The picture-taker handed Mike’s camera to me with an odd look in his face, and quickly walked away. I turned around and saw Mike, bent over sideways in the middle of the bar. Jim had a clump of his hair in his fist, which he held at chest level, and was speaking directly into Mike’s ear with rage in his eyes.

As I turned around, Jim let go of Mike’s hair and pushed him away with a, “Get the fuck out of here.” I looked from one to the other and asked what happened. I knew Jim well, and while he’s not afraid of a fight, he’s also not one to start something for no reason.

What had happened was, Mike’s hand had found the back of Jane’s neck while posing for the picture, and he had sort of wrapped it around the sides. Definitely an awkward move, but nothing too serious. Then Jane had turned to Mike and said, half-seriously, “Careful, you might choke me!”

Mike looked her in the eye and deadpanned: “Some girls like to be choked.”

Obviously, Jane flipped out. Jim flipped out. And you know the rest.

Before he left, I walked up to Mike. “What the fuck was that? Are you fucking insane?”

He had no reply. What is there to say, when someone invites you into his circle of friends, and you do something like that? Something so odd, so awkward, so disrespectful, that it just makes you a complete and utter liability in the lives of everyone around you? Answer: Nothing. He slunk out of the bar.

The next day, Mike wrote me an email apologizing for what he had done. He was drunk, he wasn’t thinking, etc. He wanted to know if I wanted to hang out again sometime.

Obviously I didn’t, and I told him that. I didn’t exactly say go fuck yourself, but I laid out that I can’t have people who pull shit like that associating with me. He had chosen to make an edgy, asshole, PUA-approved comment rather than a good impression with some new friends. I haven’t spoken with him since.

*

I’m sure that many self-proclaimed pick-up artists will object that I’m mis-characterizing them based on my experience with a single (shitty) PUA. No true pick-up artist would do such a thing! A real PUA would have seamlessly entered the group and become friends with everyone, upping his social proof and using us as wings and pawns and blah blah blah.

Whatever. I still find most pick-up artists I meet weird and creepy. I don’t look at Mystery and think, wow, I really want to be that guy. Even the phrase “pick-up artist” implies that learning Game is something done as an end in itself – an Art – rather than just as a means to attract women. That’s just fucked up.

And it ’s not what I aspire to be. I would rather be the guy who gets laid without having to get shot down by ten girls first while playing “a numbers game”. I would rather make women get (and stay) attracted to me because I’m fucking awesome. Do I have a few good lines and some well-practiced stories in my tool belt to grease the wheels? Absolutely. But once you’ve got the basics, you are much better off – with women, and in life – focusing your energy on becoming a healthier, smarter, richer, more talented, and overall BETTER person.