Brad is sitting on a plush leather sofa in his flashy bachelor pad in the hippest part of town. His eyelids droop as he pours himself a slug of 20-year Scottish whiskey that cost £100 for the bottle. It’s worth it. Damn fine whiskey. He swills the brown liquid around the glass, revelling in the crackle and pop coming from the ice cubes.
Ah, this is the life!
He’s tired because he just finished another tough ten hour day at the law firm. He’s put in a solid four years at Saul White & Pinkman Associates. That’s on top of the three years at his training firm. Brad just hit 32 so he’s in the prime of his life. He’ll still make it to the gym tomorrow morning. He’ll still measure out all his supplements and weigh his food. A shot of whiskey won’t put a dent in his rock hard body. He’s been training five years now and looks great. Not quite a six pack but he’s pretty buff. Brad prides himself on his mental discipline and ability to carry through on a personal commitment to his lifeplan.
As he’s reading through the internet, he’s nodding his head. Satisfied. He’s reading City Alpha Lifestyle blog and there’s an article: 5 Reasons You Ain’t Alpha. He chuckles as he realises the first four reasons don’t apply to him. He’s buff. He’s got money. He’s dominant in his social circle. He’s wearing good clothes.
Unfortunately it’s that last reason that does apply and it bothers him: He hasn’t fucked many hot women.
Well, how could he? He’s been working sixty hour weeks most of the last ten years. When the weekend finally rolls round he’s just going to cool bars with his buddies. The career chicks who go there aren’t much to look at (or talk to). Most of his spare time is in the gym, or reading motivational material. There’s not really any time or opportunity to meet girls. The only hot girls he sees are walking down the street or sitting having coffee – and how’s he supposed to talk to them? I mean, what do you say?
It’s not so bad though. He hasn’t been truly single for more than a few months in all these years. He always seems to find his way into a relationship – at a party, at dance class, at a business trip – and the girls are quite pretty. He’s even had a few adventurous one-night stands. Indeed he’s fucked maybe twenty girls, more than double most of his friends. It’s just a shame they nearly all insist on fancy restaurants, making him wait, and then those interminable weekends in the parks, beaches and Ikea.
“No worries”, Brad thinks smugly. “I’m entering the prime of my life – Rollo told me so – so at some undefined point in the future the hotties will flock to me.”
Adam is also sitting on a sofa tonight but it’s worn and squeaky. His small loft conversion is in a grungier part of town but that’s where the best nightlife is, so it’s exactly where he wants to be. His eyelids droop as he pours himself a slug of Jack Daniels that cost £25 for the bottle. It’s nice. He sets the glass down and lights a joint, rolling the smoke around his mouth before inhaling it to his lungs.
Ah, this is the life!
He’s tired because he just woke up. He works nights mostly and sometimes early mornings, depending on the shifts at the bar-tending job and the warehouse job he juggles to meet rent. He’s 32 and has lived in the area most of the last ten years. So he knows everyone and has a bit of a rep as one of the cooler local guys. It’s a late shift tomorrow so he’ll be working on his music all afternoon. He started learning guitar as a teenager and after fifteen years cycling in and out of various punk, indie and now rock bands he’s pretty good at it. His tattoos are still pretty cool and it doesn’t matter much that his body is turning to skinny-fat at a young age.
He’s also reading through the internet, nodding his head in satisfaction. He’s reading Dangerous Horizons blog and there’s an article he likes: 5 Reasons You’re Not Cool. He chuckles as he realises the first four reasons don’t apply to him. He’s badass. He’s got a big social circle. He doesn’t answer to anyone (except his bosses, but those jobs aren’t so important to him). He is the life of the party. Unfortunately it’s that last reason that does apply and it bothers him. He stares at it again and again, trying to figure out why:
You don’t get to date and fuck the girls you like.
Hmmmmmm. What’s wrong with that statement? Adam does a mental check. “I’ve fucked 160 girls” he counts, but then he adds “but most of them were pretty grotty.” Then his eyes light up. “That said, Talisa was hot. And Sophie. And Angela” and there’s a faint murmur in his heart as he recalls some nights of fantastic sex. The lights fade when he thinks “but they just chose me and I took what I was given. I wish that would happen more.”
“And Talisa was a fucked-up BPD loon” he remembers, and shudders.
He’s done well though, he reminds himself. Much much better than most people. Okay, so he’s completely sacrificed any chance of making money and living comfortably in his middle age. Okay, so he’s never going to be truly famous and be an alpha like Leonardo DiCaprio or Keith Richards – guys who truly do date and fuck whoever they like. And his tattooed bartender schtick will be decreasingly cool as he ages and all those nights maintaining the hip social circle will start to wear on him. But he’s had lots of fun and there’s still lots more fun to be had.
Brad and Adam are pretty happy with their lives. Years ago they plotted an “in” to women and then dedicated themselves tirelessly to it. Adding it all up, one way or another it’s been nigh on seventy hours a week each, for fifteen years. But that’s fine, because the “lifestyle” is paying off.
Simultaneously, ten miles apart, they both set down their whiskey glasses and stumble across the same article on a little-known site called krauserpua.com. They have the same instinctive reaction deep in their gut best described as “have I missed a trick?”. That gnawing fear recedes as they realise their own lives are still pretty damn good. Nonetheless they can’t help shake the feeling that if only they knew how to cold approach they’d quickly resolve that one nagging issue from the list of five.
Fortunately that entire emotional cycle takes about ten seconds and never really penetrates their consciousness. Simultaneously, ten miles apart, comes a booming clang and the heavy doors of two grandiose egos slam down the shutters together. And then a new reaction springs forth.
“Fuck me, have you seen this clown???? Hardly any money, normal body, no “lifestyle” at all. And he’s running up and down the street chasing girls like some creepy PUA. What a fucking idiot! Hahaha can’t he see what low value behaviour that is: dedicating ten hours a week, for five years, to enjoying nice conversations, dates and sex with beautiful women.
Ooooooooooo-kay, so he reckons in 2015 the average age of girl is 21 (19 years younger than him) and the average meet-to-lay is two hours. And yes, they are mostly good girls and all pretty. And yes, he gets to travel all around the world and sleep as much as he likes. And yes, he’s always choosing the girls he likes.
But, but but…… it’s so inefficient!
What a loser! Dedicating all that time and effort trying to get laid.”
Brad and Adam decide they will type in a comment to tell him precisely how much of a loser he is. And then they’ll retire to bed and ponder how awesome their lifestyle is.