I called her to explain. I listened with compassion as I could only assume the level of betrayal she must have felt. I endured cutting remarks and questions of my character. After I listened and sought to understand, I tried to explain. I told her what I think being a PUA is about. I defended my values. It fell on deaf ears. I don’t blame her…”
I can’t explain to her that the person she was getting to know was the real me. Just because I intentionally smile when I talk or place my hand on the small of her back doesn’t make me a liar. Pickup artists aren’t bad people, but it’s hard to tell that to someone who just read one of our conversations on my blog.
Anthony Camera
It's a date: Greg Mular wants to be a better man.
Anthony Camera
What's my line? Matt Buschbacher leads the lair.
Related Content
More About
Tadpole went back through his previous postings and removed all personal conversations. He no longer uses the term “pick-up artist” because of its negative connotations, which trigger thoughts of con artists and manipulation. Hurt girlfriend aside, that doesn’t fit with how he sees his activities. His five-man clique within the lair focuses on male improvement. They go dancing and host book clubs. “Here’s a group of guys trying to learn how to communicate better with women, to make a woman feel good when they’re around her,” he says.
Greg Mular works as a personal trainer, but hopes that Relationships Inc. will someday be a full-time gig. “I want to wake up every day and learn about being a better, stronger man, and teach other guys to improve their lives, thereby improving the lives of women that they’re with,” he explains.
This emphasis on self-improvement — rather than notches on the bedpost — suggests that some Denver PUAs have made it to the sobering, 436th page of The Game. By the book’s end, Strauss has become Mystery’s equal, a pick-up master. But as much as he loves being a confident ladies’ man, he’s also disillusioned. “We were all searching outside ourselves for our missing pieces, and we were all looking in the wrong direction,” he writes. “Instead of finding ourselves, we’d lost our sense of self. Mystery didn’t have the answers. A blonde 10 in a two-set at the Standard didn’t have the answers. The answers were to be found within.
“To win the game was to leave it.”
Matt circles the Stampede’s pulsating dance floor at least a half-dozen times. The girls he’s interested in aren’t biting. He approaches one group, holding out his hand for a high-five — and his arm hangs in the air for what seems like an eternity until one of the girls rolls her eyes and lifts hers.
He heads over to talk with Sabina. “He saved my life,” she says. They met a few months ago at a birthday pub crawl for a mutual friend. Sabina had a few drinks on board when she saw some kids skateboarding and decided she wanted to learn, heels be damned. When Matt saw her heading toward the skaters, he sensed trouble and followed. Sabina stepped onto the board, pushed off — and immediately went flying into the air. Matt caught her just before her head would have slammed against the pavement. “It was those Navy SEAL instincts,” she says.
She’s telling Matt that now he’s responsible for her and must be her constant rescuer, when the thin brunette from the beginning of the night joins them. She grabs Matt by the shoulders and hops on his back for an impromptu piggyback ride. Sure, it’s a gimmick — but it works.
Maybe the night isn’t such a bust after all.
