Chapter 4: Peeling a Peach

Livia finally gets done the script with the rowdy frat boys; it takes an hour and twenty-two minutes, leaving her just under forty minutes to work with in the First Decan. Nonetheless, as planned, she pulls out some rope and asks for an audience volunteer. Half the auditorium raises their hands, but Livia finally settles on a formally-dressed woman and pulls her out of the audience. She’s really pretty but not model-gorgeous — a bit awkward-looking and older than most of the revelers, being in her mid-forties.

When prompted by Livia, she tells the audience her name is Janet, and she’s a TA to Professor Livingstone in the Molecular Sciences department. In fact, this is bullshit — it’s Moira, our designated ringer. She’s a local tradeswoman experimenting with boudoir photography that I pegged as an exhibitionist, picked up and charmed into joining the show — my first formal seduction for the Trips. She knows exactly what’s going to go down; we rehearsed with her extensively. The university is big enough, though, that pretty much everyone thinks a member of the faculty is actually on stage — and that, to many students, is pretty hot.

Livia holds out a hand to her. “May I take your jacket?”

Wordlessly but slightly nervously, Moira strips off her formal blazer and hands it to Livia. Losing the linebacker shoulder pads in her business jacket instantly makes Moira look less formidable and more vulnerable — and cuter. She’s got a nice, tight blouse over nice, tight D-cups, though, and would get a lot of interest from younger guys at any party that didn’t have the clustered masses of tube-topped sorority babes.

Livia stares at Moira’s breasts, distractedly tossing her blazer to the edge of the stage rather than setting it aside properly. (A stagehand returns it to her seat.) Moira laughs nervously, but the BRO dudes are far more sincerely amused at Livia’s antics.

“I must say,” Moira tells Livia awkwardly. “I love your hair.”

“Oh, possum, yours too. It’s just gorgeous.”

The compliment seems to put her at ease. Moira’s got short blonde hair, but with a magnificent perm — straight and upswept a good two inches above her head. It’s more a formidable career girl look, in contrast to Livia’s unrepentant pinup glamour. She goes in for style, though, by contrasting the body with two symmetric corkscrew locks hanging down on opposite sides of her face. I imagine she tucks them away when she wants to look more professional and brings them back out when — like today — she wants a bit more glamour and flirty pizzaz. The faint resemblance to pigtails makes her look younger than she actually is. “Thanks. Does your boyfriend ever give you shit about how long it takes you to get ready when going out?”

Livia laughs. “Guys always wanna be seen with a perfect stunner on their arm, but they have no patience at all for the hard work involved in actually being said stunner. Well, if your stud du jour wants to grouse, just handle him like I handle mine. I just stare him in the eye and I say: look at this, baby.”

Livia points at her head. “Do you see what this is, on my head? This is high-maintenance hair, and it is fucking glorious. I don’t have time in my life for both high-maintenance hair and a high-maintenance boyfriend — and you’re not going to be pleased with the results if you force me to pick one or the other.”

That gets a solid laugh from the ladies in the crowd. The frat guys, of course, are bored and rolling their eyes — but Livia’s hot enough, and they’re intrigued enough by the cute alleged TA on stage, that we’re not in any danger of losing their interest.

Livia continues on. “Speaking of out-there hair, have you heard that the police are claiming they found LSD at Mike Score’s residence? It’s a total frame-up, though, if you ask me. He claims he has no idea how it got there, and I’m inclined to believe him. I mean, anyone that has a reason to be in his house could have left it there.”

Mimi brings up a publicity photo of Score on the overhead projector, with his famously weird haircut, to emphasize the punchline. “Clearly, his hairdresser ought to be suspect number one — and if it turns out said hairdresser went to the same school as the ones working for Boy George, Cindy Lauper and Milli Vanilli, well, let’s just say I predict a landmark case redefining the boundaries of the RICO Act.”

Mimi flicks through a slideshow of tragically surreal celebrity hairstyles (and one pic of Sabrina Salerno dancing on stage, proudly flaunting one of the nipple slips she built a career out of), getting laughs and groans from the audience. “So many inexplicable things would all suddenly make sense if a bunch of Hollywood hairdressers were all in a secret LSD syndicate, wouldn’t they? ‘He’s the front man for Flock of Seagulls, so of course his hair needs to make people think there’s a seagull perched on his head. That’s just common sense.’

“Of course, this is just a bit. You all knew that, right? No drug charges against Mr. Score that I know of — just sweet tunes and one fuckin’ loopy hairdo. And Sabrina Salerno’s hair is more than just okay, it’s every bit as delicious as all the other parts of her body! I just threw that pic in there since I figured this crowd would appreciate a bit of gratuitous titty in the weird hair joke routine. Guys, if you didn’t catch the nip-slip, well, that just gives you yet another motive to add the tape of this show to you home video library! And girls, if you did find your eyes mysteriously drawn to the nip-slip, well...”

With perfect timing, Livia makes the ‘call me’ hand gesture exactly as Mimi calls up an overhead of one of Debbie Harry’s more regrettable hair experiments. The crowd laughs, and a few girls visibly blush. Moira covers her mouth, trying to conceal her giggles — she pointedly did notice the Salerno pic. Livia’s energy is winning her over, bit by bit.

“You know, I think every hairstyle can be ranked on a spectrum somewhere between wanting respect at any cost and wanting attention at any cost. The best hair is always in the middle. Go too fair to one side, and you look like a gibbering loon. Go too far on the other, and you look as boring as the world’s most unfuckable certified accountant.”

Mimi flashes a rather lurid picture of a really hot babe sitting topless on a cluttered desk, wearing ‘sexy-smart’ librarian glasses, with her legs spread wide — but holding a thick manila folder full of financial papers over her crotch with a flirty grin to keep the image merely saucy as opposed to gynecological. “Mimi, you bimbo! Wrong slide! That’s the world’s most fuckable certified accountant!”

Yes, we took that photo. It was fun. The hottie is one of the YBYB girls, and yes — she does plan to go into accounting.

Mimi’s voice crackles over the sound system. “Sorry, boss lady!”

“Anyway, where was I? Really great hair is elaborately styled, but it also needs to look naturalistic. You need to be casual about it, like it’s something you don’t expect other people to notice — like everyone is just born with hair as glorious as mine or Janet’s. The fantastic do can be over the top, but it need to also make sense in the context of your daily life —”

Mimi cues up another photograph. This one has Livia with her clothing all torn up, a stunned expression and cartoon soot all over her face, like she just opened a package sent to her by Wile E. Coyote. Her hair is standing up impossibly straight, like a cartoon character sticking their finger in a light socket or that one Yahoo Serious poster. It’s like a huge round orb stretching a full meter off her head. “No, Mimi! Not that kind of daily life! Way too casual there!”

“Eep! Sorry again — blonde moment!”

We also took this photo. It was ... less fun. Challenging, I guess. I was the heavy lifter and studio support, Mimi was the photog and technician and Livia the model martinet. (Pun intended.) That’s not just Aqua Net. Livia’s hair is too long to stand straight out like that with just Aqua Net. We built a huge wood sphere covered with aluminum foil, like some frost giant’s 1950s helmet-hairdryer, and used static electricity. We ended up electrocuting Livia. And then she curtly demanded we do it again. And again. And again, until we got to the image in her mind’s eye. It was not precisely how I imagined a BDSM session with Livia would play out, though I guess it does qualify.

And that didn’t work perfectly either, so we had to use invisible threading to hold some of it up. Livia’s demanding, perfectionist side really came to the forefront there. The shoot ended up being a twenty-six hour day, after already working on it for two days prior. And all for a three-second visual sight gag. I guess that’s what you do, when you’re trying to be the best and don’t have a Hollywood studio in your corner.

It gets a solid belly laugh from the audience — and then it’s over, and Livia moves on smoothly. It doesn’t even land that hard, because this is an early show and Livia’s persona as a nerdy lesbian maniac isn’t well established to the audience yet, so the ‘mad scientist’ image is a bit out of left field. None of us really thought of that during the rehearsals, as obvious as it is in retrospect.

Moira looks vaguely disturbed, and delivers her scripted line. “Are ... are we done with the hair jokes now?”

Livia turns to her. “Done? DONE?! She asks if I’m done! Possum, I’ve got more bad hair jokes than Jack Nicholson has kids!”

That, ironically, gets a bigger laugh from the rowdy frat boys. Livia senses this, and rushes through some more celebrity hair jokes, segueing smoothly into asking Moira wildly inappropriate questions about the state and quantity of her pubic hair (and being rewarded with a very cute blush) and then tries to sell both Moira and the audience rainbow novelty merkins through a 1-900 number. Finally, Livia loops back around to the reason Moira was originally brought on stage — a magic trick. Moira actually seems pretty enthusiastic about that.

They’re going to do a suggestive trick with the rope Livia brought out earlier. Livia cuts the rope and ties the pieces back together, and then she asks Moira to blow on the knots and they fall off, impossibly making the rope intact again. It’s a fairly common trick.

Of course, Livia peppers her stage patter with sexual innuendo, and the alleged TA blushes convincingly but goes on with the show in cheerful good candor — acting out gradually being won over and charmed by Livia’s incessant flirtation. When Moira blows on a knot, Livia gives a body-language reaction as if Moira was blowing directly on her clit, and drops a suggestive compliment when the knot finally falls off. The audience loves this, and Livia is succeeding at building up some real sexual anticipation. A few tube-topped sorority girls look pretty sour that a woman twenty years their senior is getting more sexual focus than they are, however. Don’t worry, ladies, I think, you’ll get your turn.

As planned, Moira isn’t able to blow the last knot off despite a sustained effort. Finally, Livia asks if she could borrow just a small thread from Moira, and tugs what was supposedly a thread from one of the straps of her navy tank top. The strap rises up visibly, and the crowd cheers aggressively. When a self-proclaimed “naughty magician” plays with a woman’s top straps, you don’t have to be a genius to figure out where the act’s going to go. That’s actually the point — it’s all about building anticipation. Moira is obviously wearing a lacy blue bra under the tank top — the straps are plainly visible — but the crowd is still eager to see faculty knockers, even in a bra. So Livia ties the imaginary thread into the recalcitrant knot, and asks Moira to grip the knot firmly with both hands. She does so, and as rehearsed holds it directly to her chest.

Livia takes hold of her microphone in one hand and the opposite end of the rope in the other, and walks away from Moira until the rope is nearly taut. “Now, boys,” she purrs, really playing up her sexy accent, “there’s two ladies on this stage with their hands tightly gripping a long, thick rope. And that rope has been largely limp for most of the night, but now it looks like it’s getting pretty firm. And there’s unfortunately a right awkward knot stuck innit thanks to some built-up tension. But I think I know how we can get rid of it, and I’m hopin’ all you mad lads can give us some encouragement, so we can get to that one special moment where we all release the tension together. So why don’t we all count down from five, and when we get to zero, I’mma gonna give this rope the rough and vigorous kind of tugging I think we all know it deserves.”

There is a moment of silence. Of course, some drunk frat asshole takes the opportunity to shout out, “Tug my rope, sweet stuff! I want you to tug my rope!”

But Livia gracefully ignores him, starting the countdown. Each number gets louder as the audience’s enthusiasm grows. Mimi focuses the camera in tightly on Moira’s face as the countdown continues. She’s blushing and nervous, convincingly so, but I can see she’s also aroused and thrilled. She’s likely bought into the fantasy where she’s Janet the TA, a girl who’d never strip off for an audience, “living the role” for the sake of verisimilitude, or her own sexual thrills, or both.

Livia reaches zero, and then delays a second longer, as rehearsed, running her clenched left hand up and down her section of the rope increasingly rapidly in an obvious visual metaphor for male masturbation. Her over-the-top, crude grunting and gasping is both strangely titillating to see from a women whose demeanor, even when being obscene, is often so refined — and also a perfect fit for our audience tonight. Finally, of course, she grabs the rope with both hands and gives it a forceful tug, stepping three feet further from Moira in the process.

Needless to say, Moira’s tank top gets torn off. Her bra, more surprisingly to some, comes with it. In reality, she was wearing a tearaway shirt only loosely stitched together in the back, and the bra was never actually clasped — it was glued to the shirt, but never fastened in the back and with pre-cut straps, being held in place only by the shirt. She stands for a moment in well-feigned shock before clasping her hands protectively in front of her chest. Moira’s ta-tas are not model-perfect, though they are large. Seeing them is tremendously fun, however, because the girl they are attached to is so obviously enjoying showing them off. Moira, I am pleased to say, has much in common with Desiree vis-a-vis the psychology of fake tits. Her nipples are erect, her eyes are gleaming and I can see she’s riding a wave of adrenaline.

I must also compliment Mimi’s camera work; the lady obviously knows how eroticism works. Most male camera guys would tight-focus on the exposed cans, but Mimi gets a sustained tracking shot keeping Moira dead-center from the waist up from before the pull to a good twenty seconds after. You can see the shock on her face, the mischief in her eyes, the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks and the final acceptance when she gives into the crowd’s enthusiasm and throws up her arms, letting her ta-tas be seen and riding the euphoria of the moment in embarrassed good cheer.

The crowd roars deafeningly for the duration, drowning out Livia’s attempts at patter. When they are finally out of breath, she holds up the microphone and says, “You know, that may not have gone quite as planned, but I think we were really quite successful in releasing some tension here. In fact, I bet there’s a few guys in the audience who feel a lot less tense than they did a minute ago ... although they might also be wanting a change of Jockeys. Am I right? Am I right?”

That gets an uproarious laugh from the crowd. Based on Livia’s earlier hypno-tease of the pledges, though, I wonder if it’s also a literal truth.

Here’s a fun easter egg for the folks that have our tapes. Moira is supposed to run offstage with her arms covering her chest, just as one would expect a woman suddenly stripped to realistically do. What she actually does, however, is throw up her hands after about a minute, give the audience a nice good look at her chest and walk back to her original seat brazenly flaunting her nudity. Then she takes the formal blazer she had come in with and puts it on, and sits there for the next two Decans watching the show.

She never buttons the blazer, so most of the time it covers her tits but is still open down the front, and whenever she waves her arms or cheers she also ends up flashing. You can spot her in the audience reaction shots if you look, and she even gets a few closeups. Livia will be a bit cross at her going off-script, but ultimately we agree she’s sexy and having fun, and we can’t be too angry at that.

“Folks, we’re ten minutes over for the First Decan, so we’re gonna have a fifteen minute intermission. When we get back, we’ve got a very special guest to introduce that we hope fans of our show will get a big kick out of!”

During the break, I review the footage of Cathy while Mimi finalizes the list of ideal volunteers. The original plan was for three women, one of whom would be Cathy. I can see, however, that there is a good reason to be adaptable at this point, and Mimi and I get together a full top thirty list. We think, at this point, that if three of those women actually volunteer we’ll do a four-girl show. Cathy has no idea there is a camera on the ceiling specifically tracking her, of course.

During the countdown, her eyes glitter with delight and anticipation. Mimi thinks this is a sign that she’s into girls, but I actually have a different theory. She’s projecting herself onto Moira, living out her act of exposure vicariously. When the Decan break is called, she turns and says something to a nebblish-looking friend with extremely enthusiastic body language. We don’t have a parabolic mike (yet ... big oversight), but watching her lips, I can swear she says “Oh my god! I wish I was that lady soo much!”

I’m no stranger to public speaking, and of course I hosted the You Bet Your Bikini tapes beside Livia — but there were like ten people tops when we filmed those, and they’re not out yet. This really is my big debut with the Trips, in front of well over a hundred people. I’m cool and confident, of course — I’m always cool and confident. But I feel it inside. It’s not even like I have that much to do this show, anyway! My big thing is selecting, reading and tempting the volunteers. I realize, in this moment, how much I care about being a part of a show like the Sexy Scandal Spectacular — and how much it excites me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the hot new co-host of the Sexy Scandal Spectacular!”

I step out on stage, wearing a swishy, almost pirate-esque costume with a low-cut white silk shirt and crimson balloon pants. I’m carrying an elegant black walking cane with a ornate lingham design on the handle. “Hello, everyone! It’s a real pleasure to be here with you all tonight! My name is Marcelo Ambrose Knight, and my To Do List is getting unmanageably long despite not having any chores on it! Come see me if you’re hot, female and want to make it — or anything else of mine — a little bit longer!”

What a fantastic, cheesy debut. I grin shamelessly and bow. I carry off the ridiculous line with my smarm and confidence, and the audience laughs and cheers.

“Mister Knight,” Livia says, “I understand some people have been saying that you’re one of the foremost pickup artists in the world.”

“Well, I wouldn’t take their word for it. I mean, if I ran a show like this, I’d want to check the credentials of anyone claiming such a thing personally. And intimately.”

The crowd laughs, and Livia gives a stock comedic eye-roll. “I’m sure you would, Marcelo. I’m sure you would. But we’ll just have to take your qualifications as a given for tonight. I understand that you’ve got some advice to give for any would-be players — or just for those hard-done guys that have a bit of trouble hooking up — tonight?”

“I sure do, Miss Livia. I sure do.”

Livia moves toward the back of the stage and sits down, and I take central mike. I actually do have a pickup workshop lecture prepared for the frat boys — it’s nothing overly innovative, mostly just a compilation of the greatest hits from past seminars I’ve done. There isn’t time to train anyone in one night anyway, but there are lots of rubes that just think listening to a single speech will make them into a bit more of a ladykiller — and if it gives them confidence, really, it just might. Famous pickup artists love the Placebo Effect, you know! I start out with a fairly standard intro.

“So, when people first meet a pickup artist, their first question is always whether the cheesy pickup lines actually work. You know — are you going to give me a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you. Are you a Pepsi kind of girl or a Coke girl? It’s gotta be one or the other, cause you look soda-licious! Those jugs look really heavy — want me to hold them for you? Do you have a fever or are you always this hot?

“Well, I’ll tell you this: if you look good in a suit and can drop a pickup line with confidence, nine out of ten babes will still toss their drinks in your face — and the tenth will polish your pole with her tongue like it was made out of goddamn licorice! So, decide for yourself if the costs outweigh the benefits. Personally, I carry this handy hair dryer wired to plug into a car’s cigarette lighter socket for just this reason. Drop a line, get doused, run outside, dry off and go back in to try another line one the next hottie to catch your eye!”

I pull out the comically tiny hair dryer prop Livia made me for this specific monologue and do an exaggerated, silly impression of speed-drying my hair and shirt, acting like the gust of air from the dryer is way stronger than it is. The prop’s got a real motor and battery, and really blows — my hair rustles, and my flouncy pirate shirt billows out every which way. People chortle in spite of themselves, and I catch a few girls staring at my torso. I even open my mouth so my cheeks flap around a bit like I’m a caricature fighter pilot.

It’s satisfying, getting a laugh out of the crowd. I’m fairly new to this kind of physical comedy, and Livia made me go over the whole monologue again and again, until it was perfect.

“Seriously, though, pickup lines work a lot better on a second date — or midway through a successful first one — then they do as a first impression. Girls like guys who make them laugh, but they don’t like guys to hit on them until they feel comfortable with the guy in question. Strangers need to act natural, like when facing a wild tiger — which, in a sense, you are. Beware the ferocious claws of the Perfect Ten! Grr! Meow! Still, if you can drop a pickup line dry and still score, you know you’ve definitely made it as an epic player!”

After the comedy intro, I get a bit more solemn. “That’s not your only question, though, is it? There’s bigger things you want ask a professional pickup artist. Do I really need to be a callous dickhead to score wicked pussy? Does wanting to score wicked pussy mean I already am a callous dickhead? Does it work like in that one Ringwald-Downey Jr. flick? Are women really like finite state machines, programmable by simple formulas? Do I need to look good to pick up girls? Should I even bother if I wasn’t born with a strong jawline and broad shoulders?

“Well, folks, the answers are no, no, no (and don’t hassle girls on the street like that!), no, somewhat and yes. Anyone can pick up girls — or boys, as the case may be — but learning to do so takes a fair bit of effort and a dose of self respect. I’ve helped all kinds of guys become sexual winners, and once even taught a shy lesbian how to pull chicks for herself! It doesn’t matter — plump guys, nerdy guys, Asian guys, introverts, wimps, dudes with a lisp or a cleft lip, even one guy with only one eye. That last one is James, by the way.”

Mimi helpfully cues up a photo of James and me posing together on the projector, with an inset picture of a much younger, much dorkier-looking James in the corner. “I gotta tell you — that kid went from being the weird quiet scarred boy that everyone pitied in high school to a stoic badass with the black leather eyepatch who looked like he sauntered off the set of a B-grade action movie with a hot babe hanging off each arm! I can’t say I’m the sole source of his transformation, but it really shows you all what’s possible, doesn’t it? Whatever you were born with doesn’t matter as long as you know how you want to frame it and work on the things you can actually fix, you know?”

I go on, talking about some of the philosophy I’ve already shared with you. It’s pretty obvious and basic life improvement stuff (“Stop standing there like a weedy little chump with a bowling ball stuck on his wiener hoping the hot chicks will help you out of pity! If you don’t want big regrets later in life, learn to let girls know how you feel about them without being a sex pest...”), but filled with sexy acronyms and pickup technobabble. That sciency gloss is actually really important — one of the hooks commercial pickup uses is the idea that analytical thinkers can learn systems to get girls that are just as effective as what natural charismatics have intuitively.

This kind of lecture is very rote territory for me — though it is a bit surreal, giving it to a coed crowd. Lots of the BRO guys seem to almost worship me, fixating on my words. My eyes are naturally drawn to the ladies in the crowd, though. Few seem really offended — I have a way of presenting pickup that makes it seem less creepy and more charming, hopefully because my form is like that. Some girls cultivate carefully disdainful expressions, but others are giggling, blushing and whispering to their friends. They’re laughing at me, but without malice — even the ladies who can’t help staring a bit at my half-exposed chest.

That’s understandable. I do look a bit like the typical doofus on a Harlequin cover; it’s pretty over the top. The laughter is actually fine. If you have the confidence to embrace it, getting women laughing at you in good humor (and laughing with them) is actually a productive step toward getting them spread, wet and moaning. Weird but true: dopey charm opens legs. The audience isn’t sure whether to take me as a parody of a stud or an actual stud — in reality I’m both, and that gives me a freedom to be flamboyant I wouldn’t have any other way. I guess you could say I’m being ironically unironic about being a pickup artist in front of a mixed audience — and it works.

I’m not going to recite my whole lecture here — get the tape or my other books if you want it — but there is one sneaky bit I add in for this show that contributes to the immediate narrative.

“Now, the third big trick in opening a set is filtering out the girls who don’t. There’s lots of women you’ll just be a nuisance to — we can be polite and call them the marrying kind, or blunt and just say prudes. The value judgement doesn’t matter — the point is, we’re looking for girls that, in their heart, want to get stuffed just as much as we want to stuff them. They’re more common than you might have been raised to expect! They’re also often friends with the prudes, who may also be gossips — and thus, they act as inhibitors to our target demographic letting their inner bad girls out. They’re chaperones that don’t realize they’re chaperones.

“And, guys, I’m sure you all know what you need to do to kick a party into high gear, right? You gotta ditch the chaperones! So here’s a few simple tricks I can teach you tonight, to put the minds of the marrying kind at ease — and make them more comfortable leaving you alone with their cooler, more open-minded and — most importantly — looser friends.”

The crowd laughs. I’m being pretty clever with this bit — giving some hypothetical advice to the guys, but also sending a message to the girls when they don’t think I’m talking to them — yeah, you bet guys notice when girls act puritanical with each other. Which side do you want to be on? Honestly? Are you sure? I think some ladies in the audience who value their social standing will be a little less quick to get self-righteous with their friends this evening, which is exactly what we want.

The speech goes on, and it’s really just a very abbreviated version of what you’ve already read in my books. I carry it off well, I think. Inside I’m nearly robotic. My mind is clouded by sexual anticipation. I need to fill the planned time, however. Mimi dims the lights in the auditorium and focuses a spotlight on me. As I teach frat dorks cheesy pickup lines, Mimi and Livia industriously set things up in the shadows.

They quickly set up a large, long inflatable pool about three meters by five meters, and half a meter deep, with an electrical air pump, then use an industrial water pump to fill it with the specific material we’ve previously selected. They then affix a box to the wall directly above it, and set up our custom neon sign about ten meters offset from it on the same wall — currently obscured by a black curtain hanging from some auto-drop servos. Directly between the pool and the north wall they place a giant-size, ten-foot tall plushie “NewBee” — the cartoon rooster mascot of the Noodle’s premier football team, the Fighting Cocks.