FR: Bull Running with Cowboys and Blackbelts

[Algorithm()]

“What the fuck are you doing?”, Bull Run jabs, staring at the soggy line of cheese dripping from the mouth of Blackbelt1011.

“Wu-doing w-what?”, Blackbelt stammers in perplexed anguish, the cheese drool slopping limply onto his plate.

I sit next to this poor man, who has now become the unwilling subject of Bull Run’s caustic sarcasm. Across from me sits Dallascowboy, unable to contain his laughter. We all hunch around a table inside Café Brazil, in Deep Ellum, having a pre-sarge pow wow over iced chai tea and, in Blackbelt’s case, a cheese and chorizo omlette.

“The thing, with the cheese. Can’t you just eat like a normal person, for God’s sake?”

“Oh…okay…sorry.” Blackbelt1011 looks down in defeat. Blackbelt1011, Dallascowboy, and I had just come back from a round of daygame sarging at a mall and Whole Foods. “No one expects to be approached here,” Dallascowboy had remarked astutely two hours prior, “they are all in their own space. It’s hard to break into their reality and be entertaining enough for them to stop and listen to you.” None of this had helped Blackbelt, who, after one quite successful approach with a two set, had found himself too nervous to approach again. Dallascowboy and I tried to be encouraging and supportive, working with his anxiety. But now we had entered the lair of Bull Run, who was far less forgiving. Blackbelt1011 sits across from this giant of a man, shoulders slumped forward, arms clasped tightly to his abdomen.

Bull Run presses on. “Why are you so goddam nervous? I’m not going to kill you, what have you got to be afraid of?” Blackbelt’s shrunken, lanky presence pales in comparison to that of Bull Run, who’s deep, gravelly voice and domineering gaze is amplified two-fold by his gaping barrel chest and tattooed sledgehammer arms.

“I-I don’t know” he mutters, forcing a mild chuckle, “I’m sorry”.

Bull Run sighs. “What do women want?” An awkward pause follows. “C’mon man. WHAT DO YOU THINK WOMEN WANT?!”

“Uh…”

“Women don’t want nervous ‘nice guys’ claiming they have good personalities. Women want a fucking man who’ll slap them across the face while they’re having sex”. We burst out in raucous laughter. Does this make me a terrible person? Bull Run smiles. “It’s true. And guess what. When you do it, she’ll caress her cheek in shock, turn to you with the most savage, lustful eyes you’ve ever seen, and beg you to do it again. That’s when you turn her around and fuck her in the ass!”

I catch a horrified mother hurriedly ushering her three children out the door, no doubt appalled by our spectacle. I can only imagine the awkward conversation she’ll be having with the impressionable offspring later. “Mommy, does Daddy slap you after we go to bed?” I think back to a rather interesting night with one of my previous girlfriends. I remember her ecstatic moans as I thrusted, one hand grasping her breasts, the other clasped around her throat. “So..is it weird if I liked that?”, she would later ask in the afterglow. A similar attempt with a later relationship would not go nearly as well. Even pantomiming the act of choking brought back unpleasant memories for her, and she pleaded that I never do it again.

“Whatever you do,” I chime in, “make sure it’s agreed upon and consensual. Women may want men, but they don’t want psychopaths”.

“I went to a boot camp recently, and I learned some tricks to pick up women.” Blackbelt1011 says eagerly.

Bull Run’s brow furrows. “Really. And how much did they make you pay for this?”

“3000 dollars for a whole weekend.” Bull Run’s face contorts to a strange mix of laughter and furious indignation.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID THEY TEACH YOU THAT WAS WORTH 3000 DOLLARS?!”

“Well, they had us sing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ really loudly as we walked down the street. Also they encouraged me to approach. When we were in clubs, one of the assistant coaches threatened to stab my mom if I didn’t open sets.”

This does not satisfy Bull Run. “You paid 3000 dollars so that these guys would threaten your family and make you sing like an idiot?”

We are just then joined by Questgame and Somegolfguy, who, after a few more minutes of laughter and profanity, are eager to seize the night. Questgame, who’s brought a cute babe with him, is grinning from ear to ear. “What are we doing here? Let’s get out there, guys!”

We split into groups, with Bull Run, Dallascowboy, Blackbelt and I headed to Lizard Lounge, a rave-type 18+ venue with a slightly more chill vibe than your standard club. While on the way, a melodious, trance-like song meanders its way through the car speakers.

“Hey, is this Stain?” Blackbelt asks with mild excitement.

“I dunno”, Bull Run mutters, “I just listen to whatever is on this radio station.”

“I think it’s Stain. I love Stain.”

Bull Run shakes his head and hit’s the off switch. “We’re not listening to Stain anymore.”

As we pull into the parking lot and exit the vehicle, Bull Run clasps his meet hook hand tightly on Blackbelt’s shoulder. “Bro, I want you to be successful, and I want to help you. But that means I’m gonna have to haze you.” Dallascowboy beams eagerly, ready to take the night by the reins and march to victory. Blackbelt looks like he’s about to shit bricks.

We arrive at the dance floor. Music floods our eardrums, and beautiful women gyrate sumptuously to the rhythm. It’s a sight that makes many men, be they rich, poor, meathead, or scrawny, cower and kneel in fear. And we, the PUA soldiers of Dallas, are no exception. Even Bull Run, with his muscular visage and confident, devil-may-care demeanor, sulks on the wall.

“I’m way too old for this shit,” he growls.

“Let’s wait a little before we start dancing,” Dallascowboy suggests. Blackbelt stands silently, looking away from the lights and crowds. Just then, amidst the throngs of piercing-clad rave goers, a princess emerges. She is tall, with cute dark blonde curls, a classy yet flattering blue dress, and an ass that could put Niki Minaj to shame. She dances alone, smiling in a dreamlike trance as she weaves to the rhythm.

“Lord have mercy…” Dallascowboy swoons.

“She’s the only hot chick in here. But she’s way too tall for me,” says Bull Run. There are two types of people in this world. Those who approach hot girls, and those who wish they could approach hot girls. Being a man that likes hot girls, I prefer the former. I would not be in my current relationship with a solid 10/10 woman if I didn’t have this mentality. Many months ago, if I’d decided I had better things to do than approach my soon to be girlfriend about the wonders of psychology, I wouldn’t have met the amazing woman I’m with today.

“Excuse me,” I mutter. I saunter over to Princess, and begin to sway along with her. When going up to women in clubs, rule number one is matching their energy. Most guys make the mistake of going up to a chick whose dancing and simply saying hello. If you are grooving to the music, and some random chode thinks that a conversation with you is worth interrupting your fun, how would you feel? We continue dancing for a solid minute, and she does not seem to leave in annoyance. Time to advance.

“I saw you dancing. I love your energy!” I yell into her ear.

She smiles. “Thanks! You’re not so bad yourself!” Atta boy, Algorithm. Baby steps. Baby steps… We continue dancing for another minute, but this time facing each other. Good. She’s acknowledged my presence, and finds me fun. Open successful. Time to hook.

“I love that something like this exists in Dallas. Back in my home town, this scene was not nearly as cool.” I say, making sure to vocally project.

“Really?! Where are you from?”

“Seattle.” I’ve noticed that Dallas locals love hearing this. When people here think of Seattle, they think of a cool, liberal culture in a vibrant, up and coming city surrounded by gorgeous nature. My value goes up. She’s intrigued.

“I hear it rains a lot there!” Oh my god, if I had a nickel for every time I heard this. I can use this question as a means to provide some “insider” knowledge into the city. If I can be funny while dispensing my Seattleite wisdom, all the better.

“Congratulations, you are the hundredth person to ask me this!” I yell through the music. She laughs. “When it rains in Seattle, it’s a calming drizzle. When it rains here, it’s a fucking typhoon!” As I say this, I open my eyes and arms wide, imparting the magnitude of my sentence. She laughs more, captivated by my energy. “I know I sound like every other fucking guy you meet in a club, but do you come here often?”

“Yeah! I love this place! I love this type of scene!” Cool, thanks. Let’s get some kino going. I grab her right hand and spin her counter clockwise. She giggles nervously, and I release my grip.
I smile. “I do shit like that to make myself look cooler than I really am.”

“No! You are cool! I’m digging your confidence.” She says as she reaches out to me. I softly grab her hand and kiss it, a regular prince charming amidst an ocean of pot smoke and molly.

“Princess, do you want to meet my friends? I think they’d love to meet someone like you”. The best way to a woman’s heart is well timed compliments. Any man or woman being led by a stranger to a new group of people is likely to feel similar emotions a mouse might have whilst being ushered into a jaguar exhibit. Make them think they’re getting VIP access to an exclusive posse, and they’ll look forward to the trip.

“Bull Run, this is Princess. She enjoys melodious electronic rave music.” Princess greets Bull Run warmly, happy for the introduction. “Princess, you should get to know this guy. He’s a HUGE fan of Stain!” Bull Run looks at me, unsure whether to laugh, high five me, or slit my throat. He then turns to Princess, and, through gritted teeth, mutters “I love Stain”.

After laughing far more than I should, I leave the two to converse. My work with Princess is done. Soon after, I am reunited with Dallascowboy and Blackbelt. It’s time to get them in on the action. The three of us make our way to a crowded section of the dance floor, and begin mimicking the pseudo-convulsive mating dance being practiced by every other person in the room.

“Let the energy of the music flow through you. Allow yourself to be absorbed in the rhythm and the pounding bass,” I tell them. Dallascowboy abides, embracing the music before approaching a set. As he sinks into a euphoric, melody induced trance, he begins jumping up and down violently, pounding his fist vigorously into the air. The alpha energy begins to course through his capillaries and, soon enough, Dallascowboy is transformed.

“I’ve never danced liked this before! I feel so energetic, so alive!” Dallascowboy’s eyes widen with searing vigor. He is ready. I point to a two set dancing merrily nearby.

“Let’s dance with them, Dallascowboy!” We make our way over, with Dallascowboy leaping into action and me providing the dancing equivalent of covering fire. Dallascowboy hops ecstatically in the set, captivating the two HBs with his momentum. They’re hooked. He then wraps his arm around one of the two woman, who eagerly obliges and begins to jump alongside him. Dallascowboy has successfully channeled his inner alpha, digging deep into the core of who he is, clawing past the gnawing psychological bullshit that bars most men from their sexuality, and has become the life of the party. He is someone completely new to game, yet has a remarkable ability to absorb and implement new information at a breakneck speed. He is a great student, a superb wing, and an awesome friend.

I turn around, and notice that Blackbelt has retreated into a corner. I dart over, and plead with him to approach. I grab his shirt collar and pull. I threaten him: “Blackbelt, I want you to imagine the last drops of life slowly ooze from your mother’s tearful eyes as I plunge the knife deeper into her – “. Nothing. I’m probably doing more harm than good here. Just then, out of the darkness, emerges Bull Run, a newfound sense of purpose and confidence in his eyes. Drawing from his many previous years of coaching experience, Bull Run presses his trash can lid pectorals against Blackbelt’s tiny chest and slowly points a single finger to the crowd behind them. As the two lock eyes, Bull Run growls “go”.

Blackbelt rushes into a two set with no further resistance. We watch from afar with bated breath as he inches ever closer, leans in, and opens. The women smile, unlocking their conversational gates and allowing the weary wanderer to pass. As he returns, Bull Run and I clap, cheering at the smiling, triumphant hero who conquered his anxiety and broke out of his psychological shell.

The rest of the night, Dallascowboy and Blackbelt1011 continue to approach sets, with Bull Run and I wingmaning and coaching the two. I see Dallascowboy eagerly absorb more of our teachings and apply them on sets with enthusiasm. I see Blackbelt continue to conquer his fear and approach intimidating groups of women. Soon, 4 am rolls around, and the four of us lumber our tired asses out of Lizard Lounge. Bull Run once again claps his hand on Blackbelt’s shoulder.

“You did good tonight, man. Sorry I was a little hard on you.”

Blackbelt smiles. “No, you were fine. I honestly think I needed it.”

As we drive back, Bull Run addresses the three of us. “Guys, what do you think game is about?” He pauses to let the question sink in. Despite the fact that we’re all tempted to say “getting bitches”, we wisely decide to remain silent. Bull Run continues:

“Game is a self-improvement process. The central tenant of being a pick up artist is becoming a better, more fulfilled man. The women you acquire through this process are just a bonus.”

Game isn’t about the phone numbers you acquire, the amount of sex you have, or the scores of girlfriends that may orbit around you. And it’s certainly not about paying some charlatan exorbitant sums of money to teach you garbage “tactics”. It’s about Dallascowboy unlocking his true alpha and inner strength. It’s about Blackbelt1011 surmounting his crippling fears of approaching. It’s about Bull Run and I learning to be better boyfriends, teachers, friends, and professionals. And, most of all, it’s about the smiles we make with the people we meet, and the good memories we create through those made happier by knowing us. True game permeates in every positive interaction, every dream realized, every “I love you” spoken.

Weak men use game to manipulate their world. True men use game to better their world.

[Axel]

Awesome field report man! This was fun to read. I think above all it's a really good example of how much newbies and more advanced guys can learn from each other by sarging together as wings. Nicely done.

[ontherocks]

This sounds freaking awesome. I definitely want to go the next time a group gets together. I need some coaching and firm accountability not to chicken out and I'm willing to learn!