| Sometimes having your eyes wide open at four in the morning is a rough patch. It’s Saturday… no Sunday morning, and spending the better part of the weekend approaching set after set, can take a toll on the human soul. I pickup. Yes. 90% of the time usually without a Wingman. For the past 6 to 8 months or so I’ve been on autopilot, approaching the female sex with any inkling of sexual pulse inside there medulla oblongata. Sets are rarely failed these days because “try hard” is a mere figment of my imagination. Sometimes the temptation of AFC cringes its dubious head in the sub-consciousness of my thoughts, but the alpha male inside me rapes the ugly sucker before he gets too sure of himself.
Sycuan.
Pronounced Say-Quan.
The Indian-styled casino in the hidden mountainside of the San Diegan nuance is where I first saw her. She was a cougar in every sense of the word. Upper thirties-Lower forties maybe. A botox-barbie with matching succulent silicon valleys standing at attention as if they were military issued. A cigarette protruded from her dick sucking lips. If I had one guess, I would’ve said Filipino and Italian was the mixture of her heritage.
“Would you like to buy me a drink?”
I go straight into my Opener. I’ve been using this direct styled approach for some time now. I take the initiative and already assume the target’s invested interest in me. Just from my candor alone, I flip the switch… making her want me. That’s the point. Here’s the answer… I’m in my twenties and know when dealing with an older target to be as forward as I possibly can.
“Excuse me?”
I get this seventy-five percent of the time. It’s not a shit test, its a shock test. I pride myself in being able to speak loud and clear enough, even though my baritone voice can be intimidating at times. She heard me. They always hear me. It’s more of a “I Can’t Believe he Just Said That” type of response.
“Would you like to buy me a drink? Or do you want to continue sitting here, looking bored out your mind, trying to get lucky?”
She’s at one of those video poker slot machines. I’m more of a lucid blackjack player myself. Can’t stand the godforsaken bright lights and uncertainty of chance ringing annoyingly in my ear. She slides another coin in.
“I’m waiting for my husband.” She runs a quick eye check on my profile and looks away. I’m wearing a leather jacket, silk navy blue shirt, ripped jeans, suspenders, metal chains, piercings, three rings on the left, five rings on the right, and size 14 rocker boots. I’m peacocked personified.
“That’s ok… I’ll wait with you.” I sit directly next to her, place a golden coin in the machine and run my routine stack.
1.) Kill Or Be Killed DHV Story
2.) Who Lies More Thread
3.) Rings Routine
4.) False Time Constraint
5.) Palm Reading
6.) Qualifying Cold Read
Then I Wash, Rinse, Repeat. I squeeze her inner thigh just the right way, sip on her drink, and call her a moron (in the most cynical, cocky older brother kind of way). 15 minutes pass of licking of lips, tossing of ones hair, and the most easily readable IOIs ever conceived. Just then an elderly biker dude approaches us with a buffet tray. The Cougar grabs my package and gives it a tug. I slide her my number on of the Sycuan napkins (that happened to have an HB8 blackjack dealer’s number on the back) and tell her to call me when she’s wet. I stick around to introduce myself to the husband and we actually have an intellectual conversation. The entire time I notice the HB9 Cougar massaging her inner thighs.
There’s a saying in Vegas that goes, the only profitable way to cash out in a casino is to own one. The probability is heavily stacked against you if you think you’re going to take the House. I make my exit with my clothes reeking of cigarette smoke. Before pulling out of the parking lot I receive a text. “I’ve been wet for the past hour. Stop by the Inn down the street in twenty mins. I want u to make my jaw sore” Sometimes having your eyes wide open at 4:54 in the morning is a rough patch. Time to cash out… because the House always wins.
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CHAT
