As a lurker in the Pick-Up Artist/Game community, I have come to the conclusion that Game, for most guys, is a gimmick.  Guys work their tired angles like they wear an article of clothing:

- They rock the striped button down, or the Ed Hardy schwag, trying to look like a million bucks.

- Of course, they’re still wearing sneakers.  It doesn’t matter how new or nice, they’re fucking sneakers.

- So they upgrade to some designer knock-off club shoe.  It’s the only pair they own, and they’re still wearing jeans.

- So they buy slacks, and a watch, and before you know it they’re a new man!

Unfortunately, underneath the Emperor’s new clothes, they’re the same stupid douchebag decked out in Club Costume.  No matter how nice the wrapper, if it feels unnatural it will look unnatural.

Gimmick Game works the same way.

If you set out to be the Funny Guy, or the Cool Guy or the Tough Guy, the process doesn’t end with the right set of clothes and a couple of parlor tricks. Pretending is not being.

Six weeks of BJJ and an Affliction t-shirt don’t make you a tough guy.  When you walk into a dive bar and order a couple of Jaeguh Bommz, everyone in the place knows you’re a nitwit.

Likewise, working routines and gimmicks will fall flat when they don’t represent You, the guy underneath.

What’s more, Game itself is a gimmick.

Most one-night stands don’t deserve to be called “conquests”, and having a few of them does not make you a man.  Eventually, most guys will settle into a relationship.  Do you want to be in a relationship with a woman who liked you for being something you’re not?

Wait until she finds out that the watch is a fake and the ‘Slade belongs to your brother.

If you manage to pull off the gimmick past Date Three, be prepared for the consequences of a) fucking her and running or b) her discovering that you’re completely full of shit.

If you want to be the Cool Guy with lots of toys and money, forget about the half-gram of stepped on blow and the designer knock-offs.  Work hard, get a real job, bust your ass.  Being the Cool Guy isn’t about getting laid, that’s just a perk.

Work 80 hour weeks, then decide if the perks are worth the real price of entry.

If you want to be the Tough Guy, try a 5 AM wake-up for a 6 AM workout with a hangover from clubbing.  Try bleeding into the carpet of a sheriff’s sub-station, giving a statement with a BAC of 0.18.

Try something else.

Gimmick Game is all about putting on an unnatural front to hide your shabby self.  Rather than devote effort to pretending to be someone worth fucking, why not devote that effort to BEING someone worth fucking.

I might have dirt under my nails and a chip on my shoulder, but I don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight.  I don’t have to buy over-priced drinks with no booze in them.  I don’t have to memorize lines or routines.

I can say No to a woman because I don’t care if it turns her off.

And if it does, I can go home and jerk off because I don’t give a fuck if anyone thinks I’m a master Player.

I walked into the bar alone.  Cinqo de Mayo fell on a week night, and no one was returning my calls.  Three feet through the door I ran into a kid I knew from around the neighborhood.

He turned small talk into a boring lecture about college.  Art school fag.  He moaned about being a walking cliche while I struggled to remember his name.  I eyeballed the bar nervously, more interested in a drink than anything he had to say.

“So, uh . . . where are all the hot, straight chicks?”

As if I hadn’t just insulted him, he pointed and walked across the bar.  He sidled up to a little co-ed – cute, dirty blonde – and wrapped his arms around her.  She sat at a table with some soggy looking poof.  Art Boi leaned in and whispered something to the Blonde, and pointed at me.

Her eyes lit up.  She waved me over.

I walked to her table and she pushed the chair out next to her with her foot.  As first impressions go, this was more auspicious than most.

“Alcohol would be good,” I said.  My version of an introduction.

Art Boi made proper introductions around the table.  The fat poof looked like he spent most nights crying and jerking off to Bauhaus.  We were one chair shy.  Art Boi stood.

“What’re we drinking?” I asked.

“Ooh, Jager?” she said.

“Be a sweetheart?” I pulled out a twenty, holding it across the table to the fat poof.

He looked hurt.  The blonde looked over at him.

“Oh, come on,” she cooed.

“Fine . . . ” he said, pushing himself away from the table.

“You drinking?” I said, looking up at Art Boi.

“No . . . ” he showed me the large X drawn on either hand in black marker.  He took fat boy’s seat.

“Oh, right.  Straight edge.”

I made small talk with the blonde.  Where do you go to school?  What’s your major?  What color panties are you wearing?

It was a thong, actually.  Pink.  She stood to show me the strap.  I was only being a smart-ass, if deliberately rude.  I couldn’t believe that worked.  Fat Boy returned with our shots.  Blondie slid into my lap so Fat Boy could sit.  She wiggled and snuggled up to me.

What God had I pleased?

“So, what did homeboy whisper in your ear?” I murmured.

“You’re hot . . . ” she stammered.

She giggled and reached down between my legs, feeling her way up my thigh.  She shifted her weight indelicately and palmed my crotch, rubbing me through my jeans.

Dear Penthouse Forum . . .

Then she turned to kiss me.  If kissing is a skill, she didn’t have it.  Her spit ran down my chin.  I could taste the alcohol on her breath.  I was only on my second drink.  My motivation faltered.

I had said less than a full paragraph worth of words to this girl.  It was actually happening – her squeezing reminded me – but I could hardly believe that this girl had just fallen into my lap.  I suspected I was committing a crime.

I made her show me her I.D.  She was 20 – or 21 – depending on which card I looked at.

Game on.

I stood her up and marched us to the bar.  The bartender was surprised to see me.  I hadn’t been around in months.  The next pair of shots were on the house, and I bought another double for myself.  I had catching up to do.

We hopped to the next bar.  Art Boi scored us a free round at the next bar, before scuttling off to parts unknown.  A few more drinks and a few more bars and Blondie was hanging on my arm for support.

I suggested calling it a night.

She suggested that we go back to her friend’s house.  I insisted on a cab until she told me where we were going.  I was parked two blocks away.  The walk to my car was longer than the drive to her friend’s apartment.

Stupidly, I marched us to my car.

Not a block later she was whining in my ear.  It’s cold!  Where’s your car?  Let’s call a cab to your car!

I dragged her the distance.  By the time I unlocked my doors, I hated her with every fiber of my being.  She fell into my passenger seat, and I rolled out of my space with surgical delicacy.  It was only a few more blocks to her friend’s apartment.  All back streets.  I multi-tasked between clutching, shifting, and removing her hand from my groin.

All of this while glancing frantically in my mirrors for cops.

We crash landed on a couch in the living room of a dank frat pad.  I was given a brief introduction to the leaseholder, who casually shrugged me the consent to fuck on his furniture.   He hit the lights on his way out.

I had barely sunk my teeth into Blondie’s shoulder, and a hand up her shirt, when Fat Boy reappeared.

“There aren’t any spare bedrooms . . . “

I groaned loudly, my noise barely muffled by her skin.

“What happened to the room you slept in last night?” she howled.

“Someone else is passed out in there . . . ” he muttered.

He said nothing else.  He was hammered, and he curled up on the adjacent couch.  My hand froze.  With all momentum lost, I unhanded her breast.  In the back of my mind, I was grateful not to be balancing on one foot, or counting to thirty.

Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three . . .

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I woke before she did.  We were spooning.  Sunlight filtered through the bedsheets that passed as curtains.  The room smelled like piss and puke.

My clothes were soaked with sweat.  Everything was damp, even the couch.  My arms were wrapped around her.  The crotch of her jeans was wet.

In a panic, I reached between us and checked my groin.  Still dry.

Fat Boy was stirring.  Before long, Captain Frat and a roommate stumbled  into the living room.  I was desperate to be anywhere else.  She didn’t even say good morning.

After the most awkward conversation of my life, I climbed over her and staggered out of the apartment.  Now that I was moving, the hangover began to throb.

Out in the cool morning air, I checked to see how much I had been peed on.  I scraped two bumpers dislodging myself from my parking space.  I didn’t remember her name.

The Rules are simple:

1. Don’t use coke.

2. If you use coke once, you’re a cokehead.

3. Never trust a cokehead.

She was not the prettiest woman I’ve been with, a middling 6 at best.  The way she dressed made matters worse – all jeans and sweaters – so I was pleasantly surprised when she peeled them off.  Her breasts were larger, her body curvier, than I expected.

What she lacked in curb appeal, she made up for under the hood.  Her sexual appetite was voracious.  Rodeo clowns aren’t this motivated . . .

I was working at a bar the night I met her.  I was loaded.  I had a rule against drinking on the job, but I wasn’t bouncing that night so I made an exception.

No one needs to be crisp to serve a drink.

She and her friend chatted me up.  I let them do all the work.  I gave her my number and forgot about her.  Later that night, I fucked the shot girl in the front seat of her car in full view of the security camera.

A week or so later I got a phone call, mid-shift.

“Are you working tonight?”

“Yeah,” I said, shouting over the bar noise.

I didn’t recognize her voice.  She sounded sexy over the phone.  I didn’t hang up.

“What are you doing after your shift?”

“Uhh . . . sleeping?  I’ve been up for  a couple days.”  I replied.

“What time do you get off?  You should come over . . . “

It was Saturday night.  I worked Friday night, stayed up all day, and I wouldn’t leave the bar until 5 am.  I was dead on my feet, having hallucinations about dozing off at the wheel.

“What’s the address?”

She lived an hour away.  I cursed and opened a Red Bull.

I finished my shift and closed out the bar, mopping up spilled beer and hopes and dreams.  The shot girl pawed at me a bit, but I pleaded fatigue and headed out to my car.

The drive was a highway blur.

“I’ll let you sleep,” she lied as she ushered me through the door by the arm.  She helped me out of my coat and pushed me toward the bedroom.  I collapsed face down, nearly out when I hit the pillow.

She crawled on top of me and ran her hands up my back.  She slowly rubbed and thumbed her way down.  My head swam.  Right then, at the brink of consciousness, she grabbed me by the belt and unfastened the buckle.

After 45 sweating minutes she made the mistake of getting on top.  I woke up, mid-coitus, with her still riding me.  She just smiled and kissed me and laughed.

She finished me off in her mouth.

The next time I opened my eyes it was mid afternoon.  She was dressed, leaning over me.

“Feel better?” she asked.

She was holding a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.  I sat up, still foggy, while she served me breakfast in bed.

She was in her early thirties, older than me, and divorced with no kids.  In hind-sight, there were red flags everywhere.  Indicator lights flashing across the dashboard.

I was younger and foolish and she had just fucked me unconscious.  I took the bait.

It went on like this for a few weeks.  She would call and I would burn up the highway.  One night she asked if I had ever had a threesome.  I hadn’t.  She called a friend and made arrangements.

The friend was below my taste, but if two fives make a ten then I was batting at least an eleven.  That has to be worth something, I thought.  Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan.

I arrived to find that the friend had too much to drink.  The wine was making her overly sentimental, and she whined for an hour about not wanting me to think she was a slut.

I exercised every fiber of tact I had, trying to woo her back, but it was no use.  We left her sitting on the papa-san, and retreated to the bedroom to fuck while she and the neighbors listened.

The whole affair was sordid.

We covered all of the important bases early on.  Neither of us were into exclusivity.  If the unthinkable ever happened, she informed me she would abort it without even telling me.

Check Oil Pressure.

Check Water Temp.

Eject.

She was a degree of jaded I had never encountered.  She hid it well most of the time, but things rapidly disintegrated into booze-fueled fuck-romps.  If I showed up at her door with a bottle of whiskey, we left a trail of clothes to the bedroom and drank while we fucked.  The sex was violent.

Then we went downtown.

She would mingle with the other regulars while I talked shit with the bartenders and completely ignored her.  A few drinks later she would sit at the other end of the bar, trying to pick up other girls.  Then we went back to her place and fucked again, or I would pass out drunk and she would ride me anyway.

. . .

Then she met Willy Pete.

It was New Years Eve and I had spent a week holed up at a friend’s apartment.  He lived in a dingy rat-hole by some country highway crossroads.  His living room was full of old couches and TVs, and for six days we had an uninterrupted bender.

We stayed up every night until dawn.  People came and went, bringing liquor and food.  Every day we woke up, drag-assed to the liquor store for a magnum of Fleischmann’s vodka and started over.  In the afternoon we watched every Arnold Schwarzenegger movie while I did chin-ups on the door frame.

At night we drank.

She called me early New Years Eve to ask if I had plans.  She was going to a party, but she was in heat.  I was an hour and a half from her apartment, and half drunk.  I was in no shape to go running for a booty call.  She asked for the address.

Less than two hours later we were parked on a roadside, fucking in the back of her car.

We headed back to the apartment.  She stayed for a drink, listening to Willy Pete explain the finer points of meth-head chemistry.  The subject of cocaine came up.

She had mentioned it before.  She teased me about the night I met her, how drunk I was, and admitted that she had been a little coked up that night.  This explained why she had driven an hour just to go to a bar.  She talked about her coke head past.

She left for the other party in her coke head present.

After New Year’s Willy Pete drank with us.  I quit the bar, and moved to a different place up the street.  I lost my Friday shift, but picked up some week-day time.  I would head to her place early Friday.  We fucked and showered before Willy Pete got out of work.  When he arrived we headed out to the local tavern.

The place was busier than usual.  An old friend of the owner’s was back in town, and the two of them were drinking heavily behind the bar.  Things got out of hand.  One of them offered me a bottle of Jack Daniels across the counter . . .

. . . and I woke up near dawn in her bed with a strange girl.

I had a searing headache and no memory of the night before.  She had dark hair and warm, pillowy D-cups.  She was girl-next-door cute.  She was snuggled up against me, wearing only a t-shirt and panties.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but, uh . . . who are you?”

She said her name was Liz.  She told me we did not have sex, although she wasn’t opposed to the idea.  She fondled me a bit, but I was struggling not to be sick.

Later that day, Willy Pete gave me the dirt.  After I blacked out at the bar, we ended up back at the apartment.  The two girls put on a floor show and afterward Liz came in to curl up next to me.

He didn’t mention the coke.

Things began to unravel.  I met more of her friends.  I was completely cold to her, except when we were fucking.  We went to a party at some rich, middle-aged businessman’s house.  I was the youngest person there.  He was an old friend of hers, a former employer.  He played an alpha-male buddy routine with me while she flirted openly with him.

Unsure of which one was trying harder to shame me, I ignored them both and drank his expensive liquor.  She palmed him a gram and he excused himself.

. . .

We took a detour one night on the way to the bar.  She turned down a dirt road and pulled up in front of some shitty modular home.  The nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away, and she insisted I stay in the car.

I sat there, furious, replaying things in my head.  I resigned myself to suck it up, make it through the night, and leave early in the morning.

It was a miserable night.  Cold.  The bar was dead.  She was on her phone every ten minutes.  I came out of the bathroom and she was gone.  I got her voice mail several times and left no message.

When she finally called me back, she told me to meet her back at her apartment.  Willy Pete had arrived at the bar, my only consolation, and gave me a lift.

She was lying on her bed fully clothed when I arrived.  I didn’t ask any questions.  I took off my boots, took a few pulls off the Wild Turkey by the bed and went to sleep.

The next morning I woke with her clinging to me like a barnacle.  She was squeezing me with her hand to arouse me.  I moved to get up and she began to plead with me – first verbally, then orally.  I relented.

We didn’t say a word as we laid on the damp, cold sheets.  She was facing the wall, with her back to me.

I was disgusted with myself.

She asked if I would come up next weekend – she wanted to make some kind of special plans.  I informed her that I had a female friend flying in from out of town, and that I wouldn’t be around.  I got up to shower and heard her sniffle.

She told me she didn’t want to see me anymore.

I didn’t talk to her at all that next week.  I picked Aimee up at the airport and promptly forgot about the last few months.  I was pampered and doted on for six days.  It was wonderful.  I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest.

I dropped Aimee off and kissed her goodbye.  I hadn’t been out of her an hour when my phone rang.

“Where are you?”

Motherfucker.

I didn’t want to entertain her conversation, but she begged me to come see her.  I was almost to my exit when I imagined stuffing myself in her mouth, still warm with someone else.  I changed lanes and kept driving.

She opened a bottle of vodka when I got there and started drinking heavily.  After her pleading over the phone I had expected some modicum of kissing up.  Instead she shuffled around her apartment, brooding.

Her nose was tell-tale red.

She began to ask me questions about the week prior.  I refused to answer, reminding her that we were never really “together”.  I owed her nothing and I told her so.  The angrier she got, the calmer I felt.

Complete and instantaneous dissociation.

I realized my “revenge” plan was now irrelevant.  Smirking, I turned for the door.  She stood in front of me, screaming.  I told her, very casually, to get the fuck out of my way.  I moved to step around her and she shoved me.  My smile vanished.

“How can you say you don’t have any feelings for me?”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“How can you say you don’t love me!?“

“Because I don’t.”

“You FUCKER!”

It all happened in slow motion.  I saw the punch coming from a mile away.  She cocked her hand back behind her waist and swung for the fences.  She caught me right on the jaw.  My head snapped to one side and back.

I stood there wordless.  I was too surprised to be angry – too stunned to hit her back.

I moved to leave again and she threw herself in front of me.  She screamed at the top of her lungs that she would call the police and tell them that I hit her.  My surface tension broke.  I hurled my phone at an adjacent wall and called her a stupid fucking whore.

She collapsed on the ground in a heap, sobbing.

“You’ll fuck her again,” Willy Pete told me, one afternoon.

I never spoke to her again.

It recently occurred to me that there is a disparity between how men and women define Hooking Up.  The female definition seems to involve making out and heavy petting.  Everything else is Banging.

There was no mention of oral sex.  Gray area.  Everyone avoided the subject.

For me, the definitions are opposite.  Hooking up involves conjoined genitals.  Everything else is just fucking around . . .

The degree of sexual activity has changed.  The antiquated four-base system of sexual activity must be retired.  It does not adequately describe the hierarchy of sexual activity.

The game has changed.  The ante has been upped.  No one cares if you’ve touched a girl’s tit anymore.  Making out?  That’s not even out of the locker room . . .

The following is the updated Four-Base system.

1st Base:  Manual

Handjobs/Tit-fucking.  Outer course.  Who counts kissing, anyway?  You’re not rounding the bases until you get cum on something.

2nd Base:  Oral

Teens now think nothing of giving oral.  Some people would argue that oral is more intimate than intercourse, but you can’t get pregnant shooting down someone’s throat.

Analingus counts as sliding into second.

3rd Base:  Sex

That’s right, fucking is only third base.  Oral is only an appetizer.  Sex is the the main course.  However, it is still possible to go farther.

Anal intercourse, like anal-oral, counts as sliding into base.  In either case you come up dirty.

Home Run . . .

The threesome is the full home run.  It’s like sex, only more of it.  Make sure to touch every base on your way around . . .

If you hook up some group sex and get a few friends laid in the deal, it’s a bona fide Grand Slam.

According to a recent article in The New York Times, therapists claim a rise in household “green disputes.” It turns out some couples are experiencing what therapist Linda Buzzell calls a “values gap,” when one of them “undergoes an environmental ‘waking up’ process” before the other. Leslie Kaufman reports that Christienne deTournay Birkhahn of the Marin County-based EcoMom Alliance has noticed “disputes over how green is green enough often divide along predictable lines by sex.”

Of course they do. (Excerpt from The Spearhead)

Valentine’s Day crops up every year like a festering chancre sore.  Men dish out a pay-check to validate their insecure loved ones.  Being guilt-tripped into buying shit for your wife or girlfriend is tantamount to paying for sex.  Men get into relationships specifically to avoid that.

It’s time to even up the score.

For those of you with a Facebook, we encourage you to Join The Cause.  If you don’t have one, what the fuck?  Even I signed up, and I don’t sign up for anything (unless I’m drunk and looking for porn, and there’s money in my checking account . . . )

In the interests of being obnoxious American Imperialist Pigs we’re going to promote the Hell out of this event.  Every man who has ever shelled out for Valentine’s Day deserves a nice rib-eye and a little Zip ‘n Sip.

Post Script:

As a side note, I was reminded that 3.14 is “Pi Day“, and that “Steak and Blowjob Day” might be a tough sell . . .

Seriously?  Anyone geeky cunt who cares more about a number than they do about a hummer can get the fuck off my planet.

Of course, from a business perspective, Prostitutes use the term to advertise a “service” where they (ostensibly) try extra hard.  They infuse a little passion into the experience to make it feel special.  It’s not just Hooker Sex – it’s Performance Art!

Then again, mimes are performance art too.  You’re not paying them extra to pretend really hard that they’re stuck in an invisible box.

I have simple tastes.  I’m not looking for a performance.  All I ask from a girl is that she try to hold as still as possible and not cry audibly – but that’s just me.  Some guys need a little more.

When it comes to “The Girlfriend Experience” you think you’re paying for simulated emotions.  You think you’re paying for something special.  What you’re actually paying for is “kissing on the mouth” and “sincere moaning”.

By the way, if you want kissing on the mouth “with tongue” it’ll cost you extra.  If, for some reason, you want to perform oral on her . . . extra.  While I’ve never paid for this particular service, I imagine it to be comparable to drinking from the Suez Canal in both flavor and relative health risks.

If the ad says “K9″, move on.

It would seem that a reasonable adult would look at the words “Girlfriend Experience” and recognize them for what they are: clever marketing.  Then again, you would think most people would be smart enough not to bury their face between a hooker’s legs either.

The GFE isn’t selling “better sex” . . . it’s selling a placebo effect.  Sex is not the only reason men go to prostitutes.  Some men simply want the company.  After working 60 hours a week at a bullshit job covered in grease and solvents, maybe all a man wants is an hour of safe harbor in an otherwise uncaring world.

His kids don’t listen to him.  His wife won’t listen to him.  He can’t afford a therapist on his salary . . . But a Prostitute?  She’ll listen to him.  She’ll be hanging on every word, and she’ll jerk him off while she does.  Hell, if anyone is going to understand a hard life of wage slavery and emotional detatchment it’s a prostitute.

Your shrink sits there in his two hundred dollar loafers busily not giving a fuck.

The odds that your wife is cheating on you?  Greater than 50/50.

Guys want this placebo effect the way they want alcohol or drugs or a fast car.  None of these things will make their problems go away, but maybe, under the right lighting, they can iron out the wrinkles for an hour.  Just maybe they can recover enough of themselves to make it through another week, or another day, without snapping and beating their boss to death with a tire iron.

A prostitute won’t erase your problems.  Then again, neither will most anything else.  You can fork over a few grand and spend an hour or two with a really high-priced call girl with the hope that she’ll really sell the illusion.  If you’re in Nevada, you can go to any one of the establishments there that caters to this sort of fantasy.  All you’re really paying for is a better set of tits and the illusion of safety.  Sure, the girl’s pimp probably isn’t going to kick in the door and rob you in a licensed brothel, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re going home alone.

Maybe you’re hoping she’ll come home with you.  Maybe you think that somehow, out of all the guys she’s blown that day, you’re special.  This has absolutely nothing to do with her, and everything to do with your sagging ego.  Let’s face it, if you’re trying to bring home a girl that’ll suck your cock for drug money, you’re barking up the wrong tree in your search for love and affection.

Is it cheaper than a real girlfriend?  Maybe . . .

. . . But do yourself a favor.  Save a couple “roses” and settle for a regular fuck.  Ten minutes later, when you’re sitting at a stop light thinking “Why the fuck did I just do that!?”, at least you’ll have money for gas.

Maybe it was the way she was moaning, or the fact that she wasn’t – maybe it was the disinterested look on her face as she filed her nails during your lovemaking . . . It doesn’t matter.  Now you feel cheap and used.  Vacant.  Alone.  Now you’ve paid her and she didn’t even enjoy having sex with you.

Well, fear not – I’m going to give you a little tip that will help you get the most for your Entertainment Dollar.  It’s called “The Girlfriend Experience“.

So you’re cruising Craigslist, looking for employment and maybe a microwave, and (somehow) you stumble upon an ad promising a full GFE for only 200 Roses.  This happens to me all the time.

You think, “Wow, what a spectacular deal!  I don’t even know what a GFE is, but I want one!”  and you run down to the Florist, cash in hand.

No.

First things first, GFE is “hooker-code” for “Girlfriend Experience”.  There are others as well: PSE – Porn Star Experience, CBJ – Covered Blow Job, BBBJ – BareBack Blow Job and so on.

These are default Craigslist/Want-Ad/Escort Hooker protocols that allow the girls (or guys) to identify the services they offer.  Like any a la carte service, most of these mean you’re about to pay more.  Chances are, you’re about to pay a lot more, and since you’re dealing with prostitutes you have to wonder just what kind of value-added services you get for your money.

Money can’t buy love, but apprently it can rent a reasonable approximation.

A “Girlfriend Experience” sounds intriguing at first.  It sounds . . . nice.  So you climb into your Dodge Colt and head on over to the local Motor Lodge with stars in your eyes.  You’re thinking this will be a lunch break night to remember.  This girl will sweep you off your feet, gently caressing you and telling you all the things she loves about you.

Reality sets in when the door opens.  She’s 20 lbs heavier than the grainy photo she e-mailed you, which was probably taken when strip clubs would still hire her.  She says she’s 23, she’s probably 31 and she looks like 47.  A decade or so of chain-smoking Pall Malls and cock have left her voice sounding like Tom Waits at a Drive-Through.

Of course, you were hammering malt liquor in the car on the way there.  Alcohol induced disinhibition kicks in and your assessment of her “street value” is interrupted by the nipples protruding through a tattered . . . something . . . and the blue-balls you worked up thinking about your “special moment”.

“Fuck it,” you think.

She coos at you and beckons you into the room.  The negotiation is handled quickly when you tell her you want the “Full Girlfriend Experience” and she smiles.  You fork over your rent-money and she moves a carton of cigarettes off a chair before pushing you down into it.

You are turgid with anticipation as she unfastens the knot on your windpants and . . . produces a condom.

You stop her, saying that you were hoping for a little oral before the main show.  She knows that – that’s why she’s putting a rubber on you.

“But . . . it’s a blowjob,” you say.  ”With a condom.”

“Bareback is extra, honey . . . ”

Of course, they taught Absintence in your high-school so you’re not thinking about the sore on the inside of her lip (that you can’t see) when you fork over your grocery money.  She stubs out her cigarette and gives you the first case of Herpes you’ve ever had.

And it’s only down hill from there.

Her moans are faked.  It’s no less obvious that she isn’t into fucking you than if she weren’t moaning at all.  The only difference, you realize, is the extra you paid for that moaning.  Maybe it’s not even the moaning . . . maybe it’s because you can’t “un-think” the fact that she is a prostitute!

It’s called “multiple realizability” and it has nothing to do with orgasms.

Multiple realizability means that you can build a car a million different ways and it will still perform the same basic function as any other car.  The same thing goes for calculators, computers and most of the other shit you use every day.

Unfortunately, when it comes to “The Girlfriend Experience”, there are some things you can’t pay a hooker to fake.

(Go to Part II . . . )

This headline was overshadowed by Hillary’s day-long testimony yesterday.  I was plugged into national news all day, listening to that Superbowl of Assholes.

There are so many places to go with this one – It was really CNN’s video clip about Natalie Dylan that caught my attention.  There are a lot of people you shouldn’t trust for your news, especially if you can’t make up your own mind about things.  In particular, be wary of any information outlet that is forced to dumb itself down for the sake of Public Decency.

Of course, that doesn’t stop them from offering a fucking T-shirt.

This really cuts to the core of what is wrong with the way America views sex – let’s go right down the list . . .

1. Virginity: This reminds me of that despicable “Sweet 16″ show, about the lavish birthday parties rich tit-heads throw for their spoiled little girls.

I have never shared the fascination some men have with virgin girls.  Personally, I’m an “experience” guy, I like a good Bang for my Buck.  What’s the perceived value in a female virgin?  Is it the belief that she’s tighter and the sex will be more pleasurable?  Or is it something more “intangible”?

I’ll dismiss this non-sense on face.  Any guy whose been around the block a few times ought to know that an inexperienced girl might have a box like a wind tunnel.  Conversely, that stripper about to make the leap to porn, who works out six days a week, can shoot ping-pong balls (accurately) out of her vagina, or lift a stack of quarters off your beer and make change for a dollar.

Is she pure?  Hell no!  She’s got something better – experience.  Sure, Natalie might be tight but what difference does that make?  The girls at the Bunny Ranch can give her all the pointers they want; understanding the “theory of operation” is no substitute for practice.

As for intangibility, there’s no such thing.  Intangibility is the word a man slaps on paying $3.7 Million for lousy sex.  When someone waxes poetic about the “passion” of a Ferrari, they’re not talking about some magical pixie dust sprinkled on the engine – they’re talking about the thousands of hours of R&D that go into making the finished product . . . which brings me back to experience.

You can keep the 72 Virgins.  When I get to Hell I’ll take two strippers and a bottle of Wild Turkey, thanks.

2. Prostitution.  I was not surprised to see Dennis Hof’s name pop up – if a girl is going to auction off her virginity, EBay is not the place.  She could try Craigslist, but I wouldn’t recommend it – Natalie isn’t going to pay for Grad School with lint and stale Cheetos.

If you want a good lay and money’s no object, The Moonlight Bunny Ranch is the place.  I’ve never been – but I’ve seen more than a few of Isabella Soprano’s videos.  If the movie is as good as the trailers, then it’s worth the price of admission.

Of course, CNN’s bobble-heads (the male, in particular), would have to mouth off about what a stupid decision Natalie is making.  In their dilute way they were calling her a whore.  Which is fine . . . she can color the whole thing however she wants, she’s expressly looking to trade sex for money.  She doesn’t have power windows or heated seats, so the Virgin bit is just the headline to get the buyers in the door.  However, that doesn’t make her a bad person by itself . . . plenty of women take money for sex every day.  They’re called “women”.

Personally, I think she’s a smart girl.  Her sister managed to pay for college after only three weeks at the Bunny Ranch.  Natalie knows a good thing when she sees it.  She upped the ante with the whole Virgin angle, but that shows that she knows how to work a deal.  $3.7 M would tick a lot of options at the local Lamborghini dealership.  If it were my money, I’d be demanding “value added services”.  ”Crying” and “Bleeding” don’t count.

3. Stigma.  I don’t envy Natalie.  She’s got every Jesus-thumping housewife in America calling her a whore.  None of them have any room to talk.  They’ll hide behind some sense of Christian propriety, but the truth is that they’re jealous because they sold themselves cheap.

I lied . . . Jealousy doesn’t begin to describe how I feel.  If she’s as smart as I think she is, Natalie will capitalize on this well beyond the initial auction.  If she hasn’t already, she’s going to have offers raining down from every major porn outlet.  She’s an air-brush away from being on the next cover of Playboy.  All she needs to do is capitalize on her 15 minutes and she can make enough money to start her own business and laugh all the way to the bank.

People can insult her all they want (and they will).  Wait until she launches her own line of lingerie and sex toys, or maybe a production company for softcore erotica.   They’ll be sniveling at her feet when she becomes her own pocket industry.  Forget about stigma . . . if that isn’t Female Empowerment, I don’t know what is.

(Finished reading?  Get Fuck’d.)