Get Laid or Die Trying Read online

  GET LAID

  OR

  DIE TRYING

  Gallery Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2011 by Real Social Dynamics, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights

  Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Gallery Books hardcover edition March 2011

  GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Designed by Davina Mock-Maniscalco

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Allen, Jeff

  Get laid or die trying / Jeff Allen.

  p. cm.

  1. Allen, Jeff, 1976– 2. Single men—Sexual behavior—United States—

  Biography. 3. Man-woman relationships—United States. I. Title.

  HQ28.A45A3 2011

  306.81’52092—dc22

  [B] 2010046739

  ISBN 978-1-4516-2089-4

  ISBN 978-1-4516-2091-7 (ebook)

  In writing this book, I have stayed as close to the truth as I remember it. Most of the “field reports” were written within a day of the actual events and only edited later for errors and readability. Names of most principal players have been changed. I had literally thousands of interactions with people during the time frame of the story; I have obviously omitted many, and condensed some. No doubt my memory has occasionally simplified the line between cause and effect. I am confident, however, that my memory has not distorted the essential truths.

  for my family

  “But for some players, luck itself is an art.”

  —MARTIN SCORSESE, THE COLOR OF MONEY

  FOREWORD

  What you’re holding in your hands is a detailed and highly instructional manifesto on how a dude from Northern California went from being a lonely, angst-ridden maniac to screwing the shit out of nearly two hundred women. Is Jeffy the coolest guy ever—one of the iciest, most badass motherfuckers that ever did it? Or is he an immature self-pitying idiot, who indulges in a half decade sex rampage at the expense of all other areas of his life? The truths of life are rarely as black-and-white as most people wish them to be.

  Being that this book records a period before 2009, some of the external pickup techniques would be considered old-school compared to what’s out there today. The ideas in the pickup community are constantly evolving, and so it’s obvious that the methods popular six or seven years ago have been updated and improved (for example, he uses scripted routines, whereas these days Real Social Dynamics, or RSD, recommends starting conversations by saying “Hi . . .” with confidence and physical leading).

  You’re about to read a story, a graphic account and manifesto, by one of the most lethally effective players to ever “pick up a chick” (yeah, I just said that). A dude who at times is so good at what he does it’s scary, and not in any figurative sense of the word. It’s going to teach you how to walk like a pimp and talk like a mack, rock the karaoke mic like a belligerent Japanese tourist, kick ass like Van Damme and take names like a two-dollar MySpace whore—and after it’s all said and done, maybe even to find what you’re looking for.

  Interpret it, judge it, label it however you want. Just don’t deny that Jeffy spits wisdom and his own truth in these pages, because you’ll miss what’s being offered to you.

  Owen “Tyler Durden” Cook

  Real Social Dynamics

  November 2010

  XMAS EVE 2000 A.D.

  Tonight, while shopping for vermouth, I was punched in the face by a homeless person selling Street Sheets on the southwest corner of Fourth and Mission in downtown San Francisco.

  I walked out of the Jack in the Box already drunk, singing “Winter Wonderland” á la Elvis Presley, slurring the words only somewhat intentionally.

  Standing at the corner waiting for the light to change, I belched, loudly and unapologetically. The bum, standing in my immediate vicinity, took umbrage. Towering next to me, he barked, “Ey mayeng . . . don’ be belchin’ in mah face like dat!”

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch.” My unthinking and immediate response.

  WHAM.

  When he hit me, I was actually surprised. I laughed and mocked him as I went for my brass knuckles. “You think a homeless BITCH can hurt me?!”

  Truth is, I was stunned. My arms loaded with paper bags, bottles clinking, he’d just sucker-punched me, a straight jab to the mouth. My pockets were stuffed with jalapeno poppers; I didn’t have that instant access to my weapon, and he saw me going for it.

  “Pull dat shit out and see what happen,” he crowed, agitated as fuck now. Walking off quickly as a crowd began to form, he darted into the alley, joining the indistinct figures of other homeless milling about in the shadows.

  I’m shaken up. I duck into a nearby restaurant and enter the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I discover a large bruise already forming on my mouth. Trembling, vacillating between rage and tears, I reach up and gingerly touch the spot.

  It isn’t a bruise. It’s just dirt from his grimy-ass hand. I wipe it off.

  I place my palms facedown on the counter and hang my head with a sigh. Diana, my girlfriend of four years, is leaving me, moving to Los Angeles in ten days, ostensibly to pursue her “music career.”

  Merry Fucking Christmas.

  DEMO TAPE

  Someone is sleeping next to me, and I struggle to determine who it is. It appears to be an unattractive woman with an extraordinarily bad haircut. I’m not sure, but I think it’s my sister’s friend. I vaguely remember having sex with her at some point. Her mouth is open, and she’s snoring loudly. I need to get the fuck out of here as quickly as possible.

  I manage to stand and begin to look for my clothing. I find my tracksuit on the floor next to the bed. It is covered in chunky vomit, the source of the stench. Flashes of dinner at the sushi bar. I don’t want to wear these clothes, but it looks like I have no choice. I shake the chunks off and pull on the pants, slip into my shoes and tiptoe out of the apartment.

  I find my car and drive back to my mother’s house. I enter the house as quietly as possible and strip off the putrid tracksuit. I’m in the garage throwing it into the washing machine when my sister walks in, in her pajamas. It takes her a second to realize what I am doing, and why, and then she starts laughing. “Hahahaha what the fuck, dude?! You nasty.”

  “Yes, I banged your friend and puked on my tracksuit. In fact I may have puked on your friend while wearing the tracksuit and banging her. I’m not sure.” I close the lid and start the wash cycle.

  “Duuuuuude. You were fucked up last night, bro.”

  “No shit. What happened?”

  “We went out to dinner and then we went to the bar. Some ex-girlfriend of yours came down from L.A. to see you. You met her out in the parking lot and sat in her car for like an hour and then she left, and you started crying and rolling around on the ground out front of the bar. They were gonna call the cops, dude. We went back to Gretchen’s house, and, uh . . . you stayed there.”

  Ugh. It’s coming back to me now. I was already wasted by the time Diana got there. In her car, I basically begged her to come back, proclaiming my love for her, etc. Sh
e just sort of brushed it off. She didn’t even reject me . . . she just ignored me. The last thing I remember is sitting in the passenger seat and crying while she made me listen to her “demo tape.” Then she was gone. Again.

  Bridget breaks the silence. “So what’s up with this trip? Why’d you come down here?”

  I snap, “What, you don’t want me here?”

  “Of course we want you here. But it would be nice if you came down more than once every eight years!” She looks sad. “I miss you, dude. Remember when we used to be tight? I just want my brother back.”

  I can’t say anything in response. The truth is, I don’t even know if the person she’s talking about exists anymore.

  What I do know is this: something has to change.

  Before last night’s debacle, I had slept with only two women in my lifetime. In both instances, I had given myself 100 percent to the relationship, heart and soul, expecting the same in return. Both times, that intensity was reciprocated for a while, but it did not last. It couldn’t. Suddenly, it becomes clear that I’ve been trying to operate within a framework that’s inherently flawed. Right here, in this freezing garage at seven o’clock in the morning, I arrive at a decision:

  I am going to become a “player.”

  I chuckle to myself at how ridiculous it sounds. It’s a concept that up until this very moment I would not have regarded as anything but a fantasy. A fictional lifestyle from a Too $hort rap. But the more I think about it, the more I warm to the idea. Divorce all emotion from my sexual relationships. Go on a hedonistic fuck-spree and rail a shit-ton of hot bitches; a sort of “salvation through sin.” Abandon the ridiculous notion of true love and all of its attendant bullshit. I just don’t care anymore. No more feelings. This is war: Date. Fuck. Win.

  GRENADE PIN

  I’ve begun fucking one of the neighbors. Her name is Helen, and she has a square ass. In any case, she is serving as a suitable rebound girl. I don’t feel angry about what happened with Diana anymore, nor depressed. Just numb.

  Helen is nice enough, and happens to live five doors down. We met after Jackass had dragged me along to check out their housewarming one night. Jackass is quite the ladies’ man himself: a tall, clean-cut American kid with good looks, ripped abs, and a penchant for extreme sports. He’s banging Helen’s roommate. It’s convenient for everyone involved.

  We’re holding Jackass’s birthday party at the house tonight. The theme is “high school.” A week ago, I came across a mint-condition Givenchy tuxedo at the Salvation Army that fit me near perfectly, and tonight I am wearing it with a red cashmere scarf and a lapel pin that reads “SEX” in rhinestones.

  I clip on my bow tie and walk downstairs to get the party started. Not many people yet. I step through the back door into the yard, only to be confronted by ten girls. Giggling ensues. I am informed by one of the ladies that I have a “girl’s ass.” Later, Jackass throws me down the stairs in a drunken fit; I counter as he jumps down after me, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him down the remaining flight, shattering a framed Star Wars poster. Gathering myself up, I commandeer the entertainment center and force the women to watch pornography. Again.

  Staggering around the place, bellowing, I notice a tall blonde eighteen-year-old dressed like Britney Spears in the living room. She’s gyrating up on the coffee table, wearing a short plaid skirt and squealing with joy. Six feet of glory with big tits. Who invited this . . . creature? I feel something profound come alive inside of me.

  Without thinking, I instantly leap upon the table and start dancing with her, throwing my scarf over her neck and sneering. “Do you read Teen People?” I ask. “I’ve got a real cool article about Britney upstairs.”

  Her name is Chippy. Upstairs in my bedroom, I dig out the magazine and throw it at her. As soon as she begins reading the article, I literally rip my pants off and jump on her. We make out. She sucks viciously at my nipple rings, partially tearing the left one out. I am too fucked up to care. Over the next couple days, it will swell up to roughly the size of a grape, taking on a nasty purple color. Right now, however, I continue to make out with her and just let it bleed.

  As hot as all this is, we don’t have sex. As it turns out, she’s a good Catholic girl and a virgin. I have a good time, regardless. Finally, she goes to leave with her friends, and I corner her in the hallway.

  “I want to take you to lunch,” I drool. “I want to eat your lunch . . .” I’m giving her the most intense eye contact I can muster. This tall beauty before me is the most lovely creature on the planet. Helen, whom I haven’t noticed standing a mere two feet to the left, glares. I fall down.

  Lying there dazed, I black out, only to wake up the next day on the floor in Berkeley, without a clue as to how I got there.

  LAKESIDE BLUES

  Tonight, I’m out enjoying some fine cuisine with Chippy. I’ve been seeing her for a few months now. After an extended courtship consisting of several expensive dinner dates and culminating in a romantic trip to Lake Tahoe, we finally had sex.

  I guess she’s my de facto girlfriend now. I know I’ve made a critical error. I’ve set this up to be another long-term relationship, but I know that’s the last thing I want right now. It’s just a knee-jerk reaction to the situation. I need to keep my eye on the ball here.

  Do I love her? Sure. Whatever.

  Am I going to be monogamous? FUCK NO.

  After dinner, we meet Jackass at the karaoke bar. Karaoke has become a hobby of sorts. I enjoy it because it allows me to drink heavily and scream at strangers. All the fun of being in a band, without the “practicing” or “carrying stuff.” I also enjoy it because it allows me, for three minutes at a time, to pretend like I have emotions. I’ve consumed a lot of wine at dinner and on the way, I resolve to start in on the scotch and beer.

  Chippy is denied entry to the bar, on account of the fact that she is underage. She goes home. I become enraged and obnoxious, guzzling scotch. I brutally butcher “The Greatest Love of All” by Whitney Houston, then rip through Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” like a buzz saw, falling off the stage. Later, I crawl back up and steal the mic from Jackass. As the crowd tries to wave me off, I announce, “I’LL FIGHT ANY OF YOU OUTSIDE!”

  I go for a smoke out front and crudely proposition a conventioneer. She asks me what school I went to.

  “SFSU,” I reply.

  “What did you study?”

  “Cunnilingus. Hey . . . where are you going? No, seriously, hey come back . . .”

  I pace back and forth outside, yelling, “WHO WANTS TO FIGHT!!” as people leave. Nobody does.

  A bar worker says, “Come inside young man.” The place closes and one of the workers gives us a ride home.

  Rather than sleep it off, I smash bottles out front then decide to break into the neighbor’s house at 3 A.M. in order to inform her that I have a girlfriend. Not Helen’s house, of course, as by this point, she is no longer speaking to me. I’m talking about the lovely Shannon Lake: a lumbering, asthmatic psychopath and prescription pill addict, roughly six foot four, a behemoth weighing in at three hundred fifty pounds. Each of her tits is larger than my head. She has pretty eyes. A typical night might find me crawling through an unlocked window into her living room, eating her food, drinking her liquor, and then entering her room while she is asleep, in order to hump her.

  Yes. I have fucked her. Several times, in fact, and I may continue to do so. I’m usually coked up and the smell is vile. I want to experience the nastiest sex possible. One evening not long ago, I decided I would wear a rubber glove whilst making sweet love to her, but a search of her kitchen only turned up a pot holder, which was covered in glittery silver sequins. I returned to her room and started fucking with the sequined pot holder on my left hand, then flipped her over and went doggy. Right before nutting, I pulled out, grabbed a set of “rolls” on her upper back, and FUCKED THE FAT ROLL until I came. She didn’t appear to notice.

  So tonight, same deal. I go
in through the back door, find some vodka in the freezer and drink it, then head up the stairs. She is asleep. I want to fuck anyway.

  Door swings open, Jeffy standing there in silhouette.

  “WAKE UP! I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU. I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND, BITCH!! What do you think of that, BITCH?!!”

  “Uhh . . .” She looks up, squinting against the light. “I knew it . . .”

  “TIME TA FUCK!!” As my clothes fly off I try to mount, drool on her tits, then roll over, off the bed, wasted, out.

  THUG LIFE

  A few months later, I walk in the door and see my roommate Noah sitting cross-legged in front of the television, engrossed in a video game. Without looking up, he casually announces, “Oh hey dude. Thugs came by to kick your ass. They said they’d be back.” He continues mashing the buttons on his controller as I stand there blinking.

  I know immediately who it had to have been. I cut it off with my gargantuan neighbor Shannon Lake a long time ago, but apparently she didn’t get the memo. I’ve been ignoring her calls and hiding when she comes by the house. For the past few weeks, she’s been threatening to have her brother fuck me up, “as soon as he gets out of jail.” I’ve met him before; he’s bigger than Shannon herself, and ghetto as fuck. Looks like he’s been released. Fantastic. This is the last thing I need right now. I drop my briefcase and collapse onto the couch. I fall asleep within minutes.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when my phone rings, waking me up. I fish it out of my pocket and look at it. It’s John, this dude I know that works as a bartender. I answer it. “Hey, man, what’s up? What’s going on?”

  “Not much. Going out for some drinks with the little woman. You want to come along? Meet us at Annabelle’s; we’re headed out right now.”

  Fuck it, I don’t have anything better to do, and given the fact that there is a posse of thugs looking for me, getting away tonight sounds like a good idea. “All right, dude, I’ll meet you there. Gimme twenty minutes.”