Chapter 7

I went on the bum again, traveling from town to town, figuring what I would do. I didn't give a shit. I had plenty of dough from the hustling I'd done across the years, and I couldn't care less for anything. I just decided to pass the time. All the while, though, I was figuring things out, thinking what I'd do next, making plans for the future. And finally I decided to move in on some new cunt territory, as the saying might be, when I felt like moving.

I spotted her one day in the rush hour in a town I was driving through. She was a big girl, something nice. I liked the way she carried herself. She wore tennis shoes, little red things with a white trim, and hose, and had a short skirt and it was tight and really made her ass come on big. She wore a frilly blue blouses and her hair was just average and nothing special in the coiffure department. She was sort of reddish-brown, and her face was all peaches-and-cream. I estimated her to be about twenty or maybe twenty-one at the most, and I figured she belonged to a junior college a couple of blocks away that I had passed.

So I circled the block and decided how I would make the pass. There's one thing that doesn't always work, and more guys should know it; that's the business of pulling in close by the curb and asking them if they want a ride. For one thing, too many mamas have warned their little girls to beware of accepting rides with strangers. It actually goes back to their childhood, and it's a hang-up with them. They refuse you nine times out of ten if they're the good girl type.

Note that: I call it a type. It doesn't mean they really are good girls. For my money, no good girls exist. The same broads who won't accept a ride with you when you're in the car meeting them for the first time are the same broads who will accept that same ride if they meet you otherwise and talk with you no more than maybe a couple of minutes.

That's why you've got to go on foot if you want to make out with that type. I pulled into a spot off the street where I saw her, swinging around the block and almost returning to the scene of the first passing. Then I went right behind her, eyed her legs perfectly; she was a beautiful creature, big-boned and nice in every way; and then figured on the way I would make the pass.

A traffic signal is always perfect for the meeting. If you both happen up to it at the same time, and there aren't too many people around, things work out perfectly sometimes. For instance, you can say something about the length of time it takes for a light to change. Or if it's one of those crossings where the pedestrian has to push a button for a "Walk" signal, you can ask her if she's already pushed it. Or you can make a comment on the outfit she's wearing. There are all kinds of possibilities.

I met her at such a signal, and tried for the maximum. It's shock value sometimes that counts. So I led off with a bangeroo. "You've got nice legs," I said, as sweet as you please.

She blinked. She flushed. She didn't know what to say. Her big blue eyes just popped, and finally she said dumbly, "Well, thank you." And she flustered some more.

I ran it for all it was worth. "Have you ever appeared in any magazines?" She didn't know what I meant, blinked again, shifted position, looked to the light, and I could tell that her heart was pounding at eighty per. "I thought I've seen your picture in some men's magazines. Haven't I?"

She shook her head, unable to say anything. She knew damned well I was loading it on, and yet I knew she was intrigued. After all, I happen to know this: it's the secret ambition of every broad to get into a girlie mag. That's right. Oh they might say it's shameful and disgusting the way those girls "prostitute" themselves-that's the righteous ones' words, if and when they say anything about it-but secretly they all want the same thing for themselves. And they'll do anything to show their bodies off for a guy, I know.

So I kept running it all the way. "Or maybe it was a topless bar," I said, knowing I was pushing it to the limits. For, I knew, she was wise that I was piling it on. But I was counting on her natural woman's vanity to tide me over. They all want to take off their clothes for men, want to think their tits are the greatest in the world, want to believe they have the most beautiful stems around the countryside. And they'll listen to you even when they know you're putting it so high that a shit collector couldn't shovel it all away in a month of Saturdays.

She shook her head again nervously and concentrated on the signal. It didn't change, and the passing traffic forbade her from going against the light. I had the scene all to myself. "Well," I said, "are you interested in modeling?"

She looked at me again. She was suspicious, and yet she was biting the bait. I could see it gently locking itself in place in her sweet cheek. And I added, "I don't have a card with me to introduce myself, but I would very much like to have you model for me if you're interested. I do some things that you'd enjoy seeing, I'm sure."

"You're a photographer?" she asked, starting to get with it at last.

I nodded. I knew she was biting. There's one thing in our day and age that turns broads on and that's thinking they might be considered for the sex scene. Though they're suspicious of the line, they still like to explore it. Everyone of them dreams of being "discovered" somehow or other, even if they have no dramatic ambitions in the world. And all of them want to show off their bodies. They'll pose for pennies if they think it will get pictures of them in magazines. They're crazy. All they have from it is a lot of photos of themselves afterwards, but I suppose a lot of women want to grow old and remember the good tits they had when they were young.

Anyway, I pushed the proposition, and it carried us across that street when the light changed. We talked about the possibilities, and she said she might be interested. I asked for her address, she hesitated, and finally she compromised by giving me a number to call.

I don't like taking phone numbers. It's not that I think broads will give me phony ones. That's not true. They usually don't. They're not smart enough most of the time to compose wrong digits. But they're dumb enough, especially when they're excited, to put the numbers together assbackwards, and I end up getting the local plant nursery instead of their home phones. So I was suspicious, and I took the number, and decided to do my own checking in the meanwhile. I left her discreetly, not pushing my position, thanked her gentlemanly for her time and interest and promised I would call her.

Then I dropped into the crowd away from her, watched from a distance where she went in the shopping center where we parted, and proceeded to cover her the rest of the way. I found out where she lived by losing the afternoon following her that way through several stores and the meeting with a couple of girl friends in a drugstore, and finally went behind her to her house, noted the address, and left. I had double protection, in other words. If that bitch had put me on with a wrong number, I would follow up on it, believe me, and see her at her house some way or other.

But the number was valid. I waited till the following afternoon, taking a flop hotel room in that town, getting to know the territory better, staking out things and making plans for that broad. If everything worked well, it would be perfect. And when I called her the next afternoon, though she wasn't home at the time and her fruity-voiced mom answered, I found out the number was a valid one, and I knew I was part way down the track.

Later I called her again, she was there, and we made a date for the next afternoon to meet. You'll note that I didn't push the time factor. That's important. Keep the broad on the string. Never make a pest of yourself. And when you look like you have something to offer, it works perfectly. Because then it makes them anticipate seeing you again even more than you're thinking to be with them. It juices the road ahead.

The following afternoon we met as planned at the same traffic signal where we first had talked together. I purposely planned it that way for the sentimental angle. Keep that in mind, too, if you're working a broad. They're goofy as all hell, and if you can line up a series of incidents that center around a certain event, like the way both of you met each other, they'll build a lot of crazy castles in their heads that work in your favor.

We went to a little cafe in the shopping center, too, where we had left each other two days earlier, and we took a back booth and talked about things, about her possibilities, about my interests, about everything that would juice her up all the way.

For instance, we discussed her beauty. Every broad wants to hear that kind of talk. If you make it very professional and tell them how attractive they are objectively and all that shit, they'll hang on your every word. They'll ask you all kinds of stupid questions, pretending just to be interested in themselves objectively, as I've said, and you can ply them with flattery till it comes out their ears.

For instance, once that conversation got going, she wanted to know why I thought her legs were so beautiful. I gave her back, very gently, "Someone once said, 'It's not what a girl's legs look like, but where they're going, that counts.'" I took a long chance on that one, but it's important to move a little sex into the conversation, too, because that teases cunts, too, never forget.

"Oh?" she said. "Well, do you think..." And she let her sentence fall, playing the virgin act, of course, wanting to talk more about where girls legs go, but hesitating because she didn't want to look like she was the not-so-nice kind; bullshit.

"Let's face certain facts," I said very authoritatively. "A man likes a woman because it's the natural thing. But beauty is something that's definitely related to sex. A girl with pretty legs always excites a man, because, frankly," and I hesitated, making it look like I was really trying to phrase it another way, "well, it just so happens that every man looks at every woman with the thought in his mind of going to bed with her if he ever got the chance."

She said nothing. She wanted to say something, I could see, but she just sipped her soft drink, and looked at me. She was almost there, I knew, almost down the track; but she was still in the virgin act.

"I'm going to ask you something very personal," I said then, again trying for the long ball, not wanting to waste time and yet knowing a little daring-do sometimes can work wonders. "Would you tell me something quite honestly if I asked you?"

She shrugged. "It depends what you want to know," she said, trying to be funny.

"Well, never mind." I tossed it aside. But not really. Because she bit immediately and insisted I tell her what I wanted to know. So I came back again with a little hesitation and then a blurt in which I said, my eyes solidly and most sincerely on her, "Would you tell me frankly if you've ever done it with a boy?"

That's a tough question to bring off, and many a man hesitates to say it, fear. And yet it's a question that brings results more often than you might think. It has a kind of shock value that hardly can be matched by any other conversational gambit.

For instance, it set Lucy-that was her name-back immediately. She did the old blinking act, actually hit by it, and swallowed nervously, and flushed, and lost control of the situation. That's one reason for asking the question; a girl is never quite the same once it's been asked. She wants control of the situation, though, and she falls further into the trap because she does.

You see they always answer it some way or other. And, because they're in a conversational situation, having met with you on their own, they can't very well get up and leave. So they answer your question, nervous and not prepared for it, and yet determined to get control of the situation again, determined also not to be considered anything square even though, a minute before, they might have wanted you to think their shit didn't stink. So they always tell the truth.

Oh they won't admit they fuck like minks, maybe, if that's the kind they are. But, if you've caught one of the good girl types, they'll always admit at least that they've fucked. And since you're working to break down the good girl type, their answering you with that truth is just what you want. It moves the barrier down just a strong bit more.

She admitted she had laid a boy. But she came right back, saying, somewhat agitatedly, but really just to control the situation, "But why does it matter? What's the point of your question?"

They never gain control again once they've been faced with that question, though, and you needn't worry about their anger. They want to know an answer only to put themselves at ease, not really to hurt you. That's why I said, according to the formula, "Well, in my business, a girl performs best if she's experienced sex." It's straight flattery.

But it works every time. Girls want to be experienced nowadays. They want to feel "in" on things. Though they would like you to think their pee doesn't have a urine odor, they still want to be experienced; so they'll confess that their pee really stinks, if it helps their cause as they see their cause to be.