I had been out much of the day because I was helping a friend with some wacky fun drilling holes into the floors of his place and running cabling. (I got skillz . . . and 18-inch-long drill bits . . . but mostly skillz.) It was a full day of guy time, including partaking of the local sports team losing. He had to boot me out early due to work / sleep commitments, so I took myself to a bar in the next town over (college town, BTW).
It's important to remember that I went there to watch sports. (Yes, I paid a cover charge to watch sports.) FTR, if you can quantify anything in this world, it's a fair bet that I'm trying to angle my way into making a buck from it. Imaginably, that means that gamble on anything and everything that hasn't been nailed down. And when I'm trying out something new, I do not distract easily. The new gambling enterprise, BTW, is baseball, and the math is working out to be very consistently profitable.
That informs this next part . . . the bar I went to keeps it's sports-watching section right next to the dance floor, allowing people to go to the sports bar section for drinks and permitting the bar to not have to operate a third bar area (the first is for a larger social area at the front that resembles a large college rec room) in order to service the dancers and the sports watchers. This is actually one of the least scummy bars I know (if you follow the blog much, you know I prefer bars where the drugs and violence flow), and the crowd here is a little different than my usual suspects -- this is not a place I go to run game.
So, that's the setup. Clean bar, watching sports, tracking in my head how successful my math work is.
If you ever want proof that disinterest is the flame that lights the pussy fire, this is the story for you. I'm standing way off to the side, near the bathrooms in fact, watching my sports and minding my own business. A group of college chicks who were in full dance mode kept creeping closer. I didn't make much of them because drunk dancing college chicks are just par for the course in this place -- it's the definitive place for white girls to get white girl wasted and dance like monkeys being electrocuted (again, not my kinda bar at all). Eventually the monkey herd starts getting too close, but I stick to the same game plan that I always use in every situation: ignore everyone in the whole fucking world.
Again . . . disinterest is the pussy ignition button. (It dovetails nicely with the concept of devalidation. Apologies for the link to Chateau Heartiste, but even right-wing racists fucks can be correct about some facts, and this is one of those times.)
The shortest girl in the group takes the first shot, dancing epileptically in front of me. Dancing doesn't draw me out, so she tries dancing and asking my why I'm not dancing. I blow her off with some variant of "I'm not required to." She tries the usual pull on the arm thing, but I resisted. Eventually she just resorts to leaving her drink at my table as a pretense for coming back. Whatever.
By this point, other guys are gathering around, and they slowly start slicing off portions of the herd. I'm thinking I have a fighting chance of getting on with my greater concerns for gambling money.
Instead, the short girl and her taller, skinnier friend circle around and run the "come dance" routine again. I'm still not buying it.
And then the proof that game is too fucking ingrained in our culture hits: the tall girl snatches the knit cap off of my head (it's been a cold spring in the Northeast, and I was rocking the knit cap plus car coat look). Yes . . . this chick actually did the steal the hat game technique. She walked off with it and hid behind the DJ booth with her friend, so I had to walk across the dance floor to recover it. The DJ saw the look on my face, grabbed the cap from her, giving it to me, and told her, "This guy wants hit hat back."
I went back to my spot for a few minutes, but eventually decided to relocate away from the dancing herd. This bought me about two innings of baseball watching before the tall girl decided to really properly crawl up my ass this time. To say that I was getting everything including the kitchen sink thrown at me would be an understatement.
Of course, she starts with the arm pull and "come dance" sales pitch. No sale, so she tries chatting my up. I'm largely ignoring everything she says, but the bitch is physically blocking my view of the TV screens. She starts asking what I'm doing there. "Watching baseball." Are you from around here. "No." Then where are you from. "Not here, that's where."
What's funny is that the whole time I can see that none of this is registering with her. Young women who see themselves as desirable have no context for rejection. She's working under the assumption that I'm just gaming her because game has reached a level of social penetration such that it has become the default explanation in young women's heads for why a man would act the way I do. Ugh.
It is interesting, however, to watch how quickly women degenerate into beta male game. Her next sales pitch was, "You seem like a really sarcastic and cool guy." I respond, "The sarcastic part is right."
She goes through the guessing my age game through so many iterations that out of pity I just eventually tell her that she got it right like two tries back. That elicits something in the form of "That's really cool."
Then she takes the next step down the ladder to creepy guy game, telling me that I "smell too good." I made a statement to the effect of, "No old man smell. That's what I was shooting for."
She then decides to indict my rudeness. She overtly states that my behavior is rude. I blow this off and don't even respond.
She actually fucks up and goes for alpha male game next, and I probably should have given her the points for this one, but she was already pissing me off, so I didn't. She tells me that my beard makes me look like "an Amish businessman." That is a good one.
Unfortunately, she undoes that small success in the next try by asking, "Why do you keep making me yell?" (Implication being that by this point in the conversation I should have closed the gap between us. At this stage, she's overtly complaining about the fact that the social-sexual script is not being followed.) I respond, "I ain't making you do shit."
Next tack: explosive behavior game. She yells loudly directly into my ear. I don't even recall what she yelled.
Understand something about my upbringing. I come from the type of background that fosters difficulty in joining the middle class white world. This is a pretty good description of the default set of skills you learn coming from my type of background:
If you live in a place that’s unsafe, where the schools and community have broken down and families are under strain, then you might lose some of your chances to learn self control. Actually, being impatient and impulsive and being quick to anger might even be skills that keep you alive.
This is one of the reasons I stick to the scummier bars, night clubs and places full of rude boys. If I'm in a club full of armed black guys, half of whom are dealing drugs, I can function in that environment. I know the rules and customs, and I get along nicely in those environments because people from bad backgrounds recognize each other. You carry it a certain way, and people who've had to carry it the same way understand you on first sight.
To be clear, this is where I know this whole situation is just exceeding the parameters of my upbringing. The truth is that the middle class white world and my assbackwards, ain't learned nothin' redneck ass get along mostly because I follow a policy of detente. I keep the fuck out of the way -- aloof -- and the world leaves me the fuck alone. In return for this courtesy toward me, I focus my considerable intelligence on beating the system for profit instead of engineering a virus to wipe you fuckers out. Or just grabbing the next middle class drunk white college girl who pisses me off and duct taping her up and throwing out to die in the woods.
That's the deal. That's how the world and I plan to get along well enough for me to die a natural death in my 70s rather than a death by lethal injection in my 50s. (The appeals process takes forever. And fuck The Man, I'm using every appeal and exhausting the system's resources.)
I tell the chick, "I'm working very hard here to avoid just overtly telling you to fuck off, but you're really not getting the point here." I then do my best to look past her rather than at her.
In any other social context, surely she would have gotten the point. But she's a drunk white college girl who has never been rejected. The funny thing is that she's not expressing anger. She's not upset by my behavior. She's just blank because she's failing to process what's going on.
The only explanation I have for her behavior is that so many guys are now running PUA game on chicks that she's just operating under the assumption that I'm negging her or devalidating her or whatever. I get that chicks who see themselves as the cream of the crop don't understand rejection, but this chick is crossing over to a seriously Rain Man / autistic / Mr. Spock from Star Trek level of social retardation at this point. Women who see themselves as hot chicks simply don't exist in a world where rejection happens, and they sometimes behave worse than the worst aspie on the planet simply because they've never needed to learn the basic social skills needed to not be killed for saying or doing the wrong thing.
Her response to all of this was to playfully try to tap my beer bottle out of my hand when I went to take a drink. That was psychological trigger time for me. I looked at her and said, "Touch my beer again and I'll break your fuckin wrist."
If you ever want proof of how sheltered middle class, young white women are, this is it. She pulls up her shirt sleeve, exposing her little bird-boned wrist and holds in front of me.
For a moment, I thought perhaps this was finally going in a direction that I could understand. My brain was primed for the white trash outburst that fits contextually from my upbringing. I was expecting something in the form of a loud, "Go ahead motherfucker! Be a big man and break my wrist!" sort of display.
Instead, she just stood there holding her skinny wrist in front of me. No affectation. No emotional response. Just presenting it. This is just pure escalate and antagonize game, with maybe some fucking turn-on element from reading 50 Shades of Grey or some horseshit (besides The Game, 50 Shades is probably the next worst book in terms of drilling into the cultural supercontext and making life annoying for all single people).
Realizing that the context is not going to be white trash outburst -- unfortunate, because that would have brought the bouncers and solved the problem -- I realize that the overt physical threat is only rewarding her behavior. She wants attention, and the threat is attention.
So, I tell her, "Either you fuck off, or I'm going to have someone from security make you fuck off." (Whoo-hoo! I win points for de-escalating and using the wealthy white man's approach to the problem rather than going all white trash . . . which is my default mode.)
She rolls her sleeve up, steps back about a foot, but just keeps looking at me. This is like the human equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. She doesn't do or say anything. Her expression doesn't change. This chick just stands there for at least a full minute. Not mad, not happy, not laughing, not nervous, not pissed. She's literally not processing anything, not doing anything. I guess she was trying to see how long of a stare down she could give me before I'd say something. That or I completely broke her software.
Out the corner of my eye, I see a security guy doing a walkaround of the place, and I give him a small hand gesture to come over. He comes over, I look at him and tell him, "I told this chick to fuck off, and she isn't fucking off."
The guy steps between me and her. As best I can tell, she doesn't say anything to him, but he does have to lean into her a bit to get her to move. He eventually gets her herded together with her herd on the opposite side of the dance floor. There's no gesturing or anything, so I eventually lose interest and resume watching my baseball game. By the way . . . my team won, I made money, and I made money on my full slate of bets for the day. Eventually the chick and her friends disappear entirely, although I didn't notice when it happened.
I'd like to say that's the end of the story, but if you read this blog for long, you know that I have an emotionally abusive streak and never leave well enough alone. Being an instinctive predator, I decided to scoot along about an hour later to the next white girl bar in town, knowing full well that this chick was going to be there. I just wanted to see how she'd respond, because I like to poke at things and see if they're still alive.
When I see her in the crowd -- and it was disgustingly crowded -- I decide to walk past her group, ignore her and keep going. Again . . . for science.
I eventually took up a spot on the opposite side of the dance floor from her group. It takes her about half an hour, but she eventually works her way over to my end of the dance floor. She doesn't say anything. Instead, she moves directly to my left and stands there dancing by herself for about ten minutes. Never says anything. Doesn't touch me. Just stand there dancing . . . right to my left. After ten minutes, she gives up and starts working her way through the crowd back to her friends.
The place was disgustingly crowded, as in smell of human sweat and swimming in humidity from body heat, so I decided to move along to a more dive bar type of club so I could properly be myself and enjoy myself. She never showed up there, and I managed to spend my night being chatted up by a shot girl who was trying to get my name and life story.
Weird experience. I have to say that I've never had to have a bouncer actually make a chick go away before. That's a new one.
I think part of the problem is that this chick didn't have any context besides game for processing my behavior. The idea that I was genuinely ignoring her and wanted her to fuck off did not compute. The only thing that made sense, in her mind, was that I was freezing her out.
Practitioners of game will tell you to not push a woman to a point where she thinks you're uninterested. What gets lost is that some women have themselves rated so far up the hot chick scale that they can't imagine male disinterest toward them. They don't know what to do when confronted by it. The truth is, they don't even register that it's a form of confrontation. All they see is guys gaming them, and they're just trying to process what your game is and bridge you toward participating in their game. The idea that you'd not want to play just isn't anywhere in the script.
That said, I've never seen a woman fail like that before. Women get pissy. They get whiny. Violent? Sure. I've never seen one just go into stand-by mode and stop functioning.
That was different.