The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

There’s a Remedial in Savannah, and Audra apparently works there as a waitress. Livia managed to charm an invite out of her after the Hostess Central show, while I was busy charming the amateurs. It’s our last night in Savannah, about a week after the show, but we want to see what it’s like — so Mimi, Livia and I decide to pay her a visit.

I suppose I need to explain Remedial a bit here. If you’re familiar with it at all, it’s likely by the scandals, headlines and litigation. Well, that’s all substantially in the future — none of us know anything about that on our first visit. We know very little, to be honest. Remedial is a breastaurant chain, much like Hooters, where the gimmick is that the staff dress as sexy schoolgirls. There are rumors about at least some locations being more than just eye candy joints — that it’s either an informal brothel, or that the staff give extras if you tip really well. While the very antithesis of classy, it’s supposedly still a pretty upscale place, especially in contrast to Hooters — and it’s an invite-only establishment, which lends it a certain mystique. Well, now we have invites — as well as a group photo of the local waitresses signed by Audra.

Beyond all the obvious pervy reasons, though, Remedial became a topic of interest to Livia for a fairly eccentric reason. After her bustier suffered its tragic chocolate-related demise at the Noodle, we’ve been costume-brainstorming for her. She wants to look like the classic pulp magician for her shows, and loves the top-and-tails look — but she also wants to sexify it. Few professional Vegas magicians are working the pulp look these days, with males going for either modern formal suits or revealing spandexy things like what a figure skater might wear, and women going for bodysuits or flamboyant, bright-colored comic-book inspired looks. But Livia has her fixations, and actively embraces the stereotypes that more mainstream magicians struggle to distance themselves from.

I can see her arguments from a fetish perspective: you want your kinky magicians in a tux and top hat for the same reason your kinky nurses need a tight white number with jaunty red highlights and a sexy nurse’s cap; less the drab but practical powder blue scrubs and more the Roger Corman’s Candy Stripers look.

Anyway. The men’s white dress shirt Livia would like to wear as part of a sexy tux look is identical to the white dress shirt that Remedial waitresses wear for their sexy schoolgirl uniform. The Remedial waitresses, however, are known for having really form-fitting uniforms. We have gotten dress shirts both one and two sizes too small for Livia. They are tight, and they look wonderful on her, especially paired with the right bra to really bring her assets to the fore.

Unfortunately, they’re also a crime against humanity — a badly-fitted tight dress shirt is right up there with high-heels in terms of garments neither gender wants to willingly spend a full day in on a shop floor. If that sounds bad, imagine trying to do agile propwork or pull off a fast misdirection when you’re wearing a dress shirt two sizes too small. As much as we don’t want to admit it, the more respectable magicians have motives behind their spandex.

Audra apparently told Livia, however, that Remedial is a really chill place to work that allows pretty girls a lot of slack. So in this context, Livia and I wonder why they would subject these otherwise-decently-treated waitresses to what she now refers to as “Satan’s Corset” (that is, the undersize dress shirt). It turns out, they make their own uniforms, and the thing that resembles a dress shirt is actually cut and patterned like one, but is made of something stretchy, clingy and — at least, according to Audra — fairly comfortable.

We must get one! More than one, actually, since Livia is going to need spares if she wants to perform in them. (While it wasn’t our first thought, I’d probably look good in one too.) What I’m getting at, here, is that we have platonic as well as libidinous motives to want to get the waitresses’ uniforms off.

Stepping through the door, the first thing that strikes me is how clean and shiny everything is. From outside, a Remedial looks like an avant-garde nightclub with a muscular bouncer, mirrored windows and brick exterior. Inside, however, it’s a brightly-lit, super-stylized replica of a retro-style 1950s diner and malt shop: checkerboard floor, red-padded armless bar stools, red vinyl booths, pinball machine, jukebox. The walls are coated in metal sports logos and corporate insignias, along with portraits and antique records.

There’s a donation stand for Simian Health Network in the opening annex, and Livia drops a twenty in there almost reverently. That honestly surprises me — she seems so level-headed about most things, and has never mentioned being an animal lover in any other context. I guess I need to unpack that a bit for readers who didn’t grow up in the American South or Heartland. There was this kooky New Age fad-charity devoted to vaccinating apes in central Africa that raised ungodly amounts of cash about two decades back.

I always thought they were some kind of pyramid scheme, honestly. They were omnipresent in the Midwest, with a kooky cartoon chimpanzee mascot and everything. They wiped out the simian immunodeficiency virus, SIV, back when I was in junior high. That’s great, I guess — but with the amount of money they were throwing around, I can’t help but imagine the good that could have been done for actual humans instead. Then they just faded away — I haven’t seen their stuff in at least a decade outside Remedial, which I guess has some kind of partnership deal with them.

We’re obviously here for the waitresses, though. They range from fairly pretty to incandescently hot — though I think Audra and the taller lady that’s apparently her friend might be the best picks in the place. All the waitresses are dressed in plaid skirts and figure-hugging white button-up dress shirts, with store-clerk name tags and bow-ties to match the skirts. Beyond that, the uniform is more customizable than you might expect from a breastaurant: the skirts have variable lengths, a few girls have rollerblades instead of heels or sneakers and just over half are wearing prominent nerd-glasses with fake lenses and colorful plastic frames.

Legwear is also at the girls’ elective — some have pantyhose and others go bare; Audra and her friend both have the full garter-belt and sheer black stockings arrangement. I approve of the variant uniforms — new waitresses can start with a relatively chaste look, and then get sluttier over time for better tips in accordance with their own comfort zones. Audra has a band-aid over her left earlobe from the show — but really, it looks minor. I’m glad for that.

The customers look... not classy, but at least wealthy, respectful and not overly drunk and rowdy. There’s a lot of laughter as waitresses and customers flirt, gesture and tell each other stories.

We’re dressed hot, too. I’m in a black velvet suit jacket, wine-colored dress shirt with a black ribbon-tie and very tight black leather pants with a snakeskin belt. Livia’s wearing a purple sequined cocktail dress — a really dazzling, low-cut number like an old-style burlesque stripper would use; she’s also got her full glamour-girl makeup on. Mimi’s got her buckskin top and jeans from Hostess Central — it straddles the line between casual and glamour, honestly.

She’s also got hot pink headphones — the same kind the Trips use in our shows — connected to a pink designer Walkman on her belt. The setup looks innocuous and trendy enough, but I suspect the Walkman’s cassette tape has no music on it. Instead, it’s likely one of the Little Pink Dress tapes Livia made for Mimi — pre-recorded hypnotic bimbo trance-conditioning in her lover’s own voice. Mimi’s in full-on bimbo mode today, and seems to be enjoying the hell out of it.

Audra rushes up to us and guides us to a booth. She takes out the bubblegum she was chewing and flicks it into a nearby garbage — something I take as a sign she’s actually interested in talking to us. “Livia! Marcelo! I’m so glad you made it! Wow, you all look fantastic! Who’s your blonde friend?”

Livia smiles warmly. “Audra, this is Mimi. Mimi, Audra.”

They shake hands. “So, Audra,” I ask, “who’s your friend?”

“I’m Tempest,” she says as she pours our water and hands out our menus — because Remedial is apparently the kind of chain where it’s totally normal for your server to be named Tempest. “Try not to read the menus while drinking. You’ll choke, guaranteed.”

Tempest is a good foot taller than Audra, and you can add two inches to that if you count her hair. It’s very flash — dark roots that lead into light chestnut crescent-tips, all managing to form into an almost perfect sphere around her head. The complex ‘do is nicely accented by her gleaming silver hoop-earrings. She’s really busty and has an amazing bronze tan; her cheekbones are very sharp, offset by liberal use of blush, and she’s got a deep stare. Her brilliant green eyes are framed by black eyeliner and sultry lash extensions, and her lips are coated in glossy crimson. Her legs, concealed by sheer stockings, are perfectly toned, smooth and seem to go on forever before reaching the plaid hem of her schoolgirl-skirt. She belongs in Vogue (though I’d rather see her in Debonair, obviously).

Tempest is the brassy bombshell glamour girl, while Audra is superficially quiet and shy — the stereotypical girl next door. I don’t actually buy that, though — their body language suggests to me that Audra’s the kinkier of the two in practice even if she lets Tempest handle the social bits. For her part, Audra compensates for Tempest’s raw sexual magnetism by being giggly, apologetic, endearing and submissive — and by not wearing a bra underneath her stretchy dress shirt, apparently. She’s also got the same eye-catching pink lipstick and eyeshadow I first saw at Hostess Central — but it looks better here due to the background color scheme and lighting.

I imagine Audra started out as a naïve, cutesy, shy and awkward girl — and is now a cutesy, shy and awkward girl that understands those are three qualities that really sell. There is no firm line between the genuine and the affected, nor should their be. Something tells me she has several regular customers, and pulls tips comparable to Tempest’s despite being a foot and a cup size down on her at a breastaurant.

The delicious duo sashays off to their next table almost curtly — Tempest leads Audra, who I suspect would rather linger. We take a look at our menus — and I see what Tempest was warning us about. I keep it cool, obviously; Livia tries to do likewise but cracks up after a second or two, snorting air through her nostrils so hard she almost chokes. The feature dishes apparently include the Saucy Schoolgirl Special, Veronica’s Big Handy, the Willy Cheesesteak, the Bits ‘n Pieces salad, Beefcake in Brandy and — best of all — Slippery Susan’s Sliders. Yikes!

They put some actual effort into their puns, apparently. The Plaid-Skirted Rapscallops with Cock-n-Tail Sauce are scallops wrapped in bacon, but I’m guessing from the picture they roll them over toothpicks with food dye to make the bacon actually look plaid-patterned, like the waitresses’ schoolgirl skirts. I’d be tempted to order that just on the novelty value — but oh, the calories! The prices are high — way above market value for this kind of food; more in the range of a four-star restaurant. Whatever the business model is here, it’s clearly not just a Hooters clone.

“Ooh,” Mimi whispers to us playfully. “I want the Double-Stacked Rack — and those two busty waitresses, too!”

I whisper back to her. “Psst. Pickup artist tip — don’t order the dish that has the most appealing innuendo if it’s four pounds of spare ribs you don’t plan to eat all of. I eat with you all the time, and you favor salads and micro-portions. You’re probably not the first customer to do that, and the waitresses probably get sick of throwing it out. I suspect you’ll make a better impression with the staff if you don’t flirt via the menu; they’re probably sick of that.”

Mimi pouts. “I guess I shouldn’t order the Fightin’ Fury Burger either, then?”

“Well, decide what you really what — the Fury Burger, or her fur-burger. Order accordingly.”

Livia looks up at Mimi. “Take his advice,” she orders her.

“Okey-dokey, boss lady!” the bimbo replies cheerfully.

“Good girl.”

Livia pats Mimi on the head — almost like one would pat a child or a dog, though I don’t get any scorn from the act. Regardless, the effect of that simple gesture is dramatic to the point of being surreal: Mimi gasps, and a dumbstruck smile of raw bliss conquers her face. She slinks down in her seat and shivers, savoring the rush of... of whatever the fuck she just got. It’s like Livia’s head-pat injected concentrated endorphins directly into her brain’s pleasure center. It’s not really an orgasm; it’s calmer and more psychological than that. Honestly, I can understand and relate to a hypnotic orgasm trigger better than I can whatever I just saw. It’s simultaneously hot, creepy and oddly endearing.

As Mimi blisses out, though, Livia’s busy staring at our waitresses — eyeing Tempest up and down as she bends over to fill another table’s water, giving a faint flash of the bottom of her firm ass cheeks under the short plaid skirt. She’s got lacy black panties — I can tell that much.

“Prove yourself,” Livia suddenly tells me in an unusually intense voice.

“What?”

“You’re on payroll as our Staff Pickup Artist,” she says rapidly, the words just pouring out. “I want to see you work. See if you can get them to kiss each other, then go further from there. I’d love to take them back to the Beast and share them — all of us, I mean.”

I don’t really have time to reply to that discretely — Audra and Tempest are coming back to our table. Tempest smirks — she must have heard Livia snort-choke earlier. “Yeah, the menu’s a bit much for first-timers — I know. You need a few more minutes to decide?”

I meet her gaze. “Why don’t we start with an order of your Six Piece Leg Openers with the Sticky Sweet Sauce, to share among ourselves?”

Tempest gives me a condescending look. “Opener is singular, sweetie — it’s a synonym for appetizer.”

I’ll forgive her being bitchy — the menu would be less amusing to me after I’d heard it for eight hours a day, too. “Anything to drink?”

“I’ll just get a Diet Coke,” I reply.

“I’ll try your Veg-Gin-Ma,” Livia says. That’s a V8 with gin and a mango slice.

“I want Nancy’s Norwegian Nipple Stiffener,” Mimi says blithely. Well, at least it’s something she’ll drink up. I guess I’ll be the designated driver today.

“I’m not sure you need it,” Tempest tells her sardonically, “but I’ll get you one anyway.”

Yikes — yeah, Mimi is visibly tenting right through her buckskin top from that head-pat. At least the fringes cover it a bit. “Anything else?”

I fix her with my best level gaze and use an authoritative tone. “Tell me about yourself.”

She blinks at how I commandeered the conversation, but recovers smoothly. The sarcastic tone of her reply covers over the compliance — I was half expecting a hard shut-down line in response.

“I’m Tempest. I’m doing a Masters in classical Greek history. I used to dance down at Kittens in Heat, but the other girls ganged up on me because I was too hot and too... open-minded, and thus a threat to their bottom line. So now I work here. I like chocolate, Saint Bernards, long walks on the beach at night and decapitating asshole televangelists with a rusty shovel — oh, yeah, and money. I like money a lot. My turn-ons are candle-lit massages from men worthy of my time and crushing the egos of men who aren’t. My turn-offs are boring shit and people who don’t obey me. My measurements are none of your damn business. Anything else?”

I don’t take the obvious bait, asking her which category I fall into so she can deliver her prepared cut-down line. Instead I look her up and down playfully. “Babe, I already know your measurements. That uniform doesn’t really keep them a secret, you know!”

Audra giggles. Tempest tries to look irate, but ends up laughing in spite of herself.

Audra rolls her eyes. “She wants to be in Debonair so much it hurts — I’m sure you can tell.”

I smile warmly to Audra. “Are you going to hook her up with your own photographer, then? Is this some kind of initiation?”

Audra blinks, surprised at my assumption. “I’m... I’m not the kind of girl that goes in for those kind of magazines.”

“That’s a shame — you’d land it easy. Still, I can understand that. I guess I’ll just have to fall back on my imagination, then...”

Audra blushes and beams. Tempest has the louder personality by far, so Audra’s not used to being doted on when with her gal-pal. I’m ignoring Tempest intentionally — I want to push her into trying to get my interest rather than begging for hers.

Tempest looks archly at Livia. “I hear you tricked Audra into putting on a bit of a show last night.”

I steeple my fingers in a philosophic pose. “Now, ‘tricked’ is such a loaded choice of words...”

Audra rolls her eyes. “Oh, Temp, it was all in fun! I had a fantastic night!”

Livia, however, fixes Tempest with a steady gaze. “If you mean we got her top off in front of several hundred people — yes, that’s exactly what we did. She had fun, and so did we.”

Tempest bristles angrily — Livia’s line was a mistake. Alpha women clashing isn’t as common as alpha men, but I find it as hot as I imagine girls find the male sparring. I just wish there was an inflatable pool of fudge nearby I could maneuver them toward if things start to get truly heated.

Tempest pivots to leave. “I’ll be back with your Opener.”

Once the duo is out of hearing range, Livia whispers. “I like Audra. Tempest is a sassy bitch, though.”

I grin. “I like sassy bitches, and I like even better girls that use the same kind of flirting-tech as pickup artists do — though, given all she needs with guys is her obvious rockin’ figure, I suspect her smooth, rehearsed dialogue is more for upsell than just getting laid. Even if I crash and burn horribly with her, at least it will be funny!”

Livia’s expression suggests she would not be as entertained by that outcome as I would — which is unusual for her. We make shop talk about the show until the waitresses bring our chicken legs and drinks around ten minutes later.

Tempest puts her hand on her hips and tilts her body slightly, taking out a notepad. She looks so sexy like that. “Y’all picked your poison?”

Livia nods. “I’ll go with your D.P. Tubesteak,” she almost manages to say without snorting.

“I’ll get the Big Puffy Fish Tacos,” Mimi adds. “Just one, though — I’m a petite eater.”

“Sure,” Tempest says. “I’ll get you a discount, but probably not just half price — they come with fries.”

I smile at Audra. “Which dishes do you recommend? I like warm, moist and slightly spicy dishes best of all — but it has to be a lean meat; I watch my figure.”

There’s an awkward pause. Turns out, she’s a total hippie, and vegetarian. “You’ll have to ask Tempest. I don’t eat meat. Well, not as food, anyway.”

I glance up at Tempest. “Any of the grilled chicken dishes should suit you, since we use lean chicken and it’s poached in a sealed brine —”

“Ah,” I interrupt, “Cockaigne-style chicken from that mythical land of medieval sensual pleasures and hedonism, the so-called Land of Toys... yes, that does sound good!”

Audra smiles, impressed that I get the reference — the word is on the menu for a cock-pun (with ‘cock’ colored in a darker shade for emphasis), but few know what it means or its origins.

Tempest is more terse. “Yes. Correct.”

“Well, I’ll go with the Tex on the Beach, then.”

After the waitresses leave, Mimi elbows me playfully. “I think you’re on Audra’s menu!”

Livia rolls her eyes at us. She’s jealous of me, despite me doing exactly what she told me to. “Did you see her earrings? It’s Transcendental Meditation crap. She’s such a vacuous little moonbat.”

I blink. She’s being uncharitable (and showing a horrible contempt for someone I’m pretty sure she wants to pick up), but that’s not what catches my attention. I have carefully never mentioned politics, on fear that it could blow things up — I figured Livia and Mimi were liberals. It just makes sense for bi chicks, even after the Chambers victories and the Steinmeyer-Turing Realignment. “You’re not?”

Livia shrugs. “They’re all corrupt. I don’t vote. You’re Republican, I guess?”

I do vote. I care a great deal about civics. I was in the Young Republican National Federation — I still have the badges. Whenever possible, I try to politely remind people that mid-term and gubernatorial elections exist, and I’m constantly disappointed by how many patriotic Americans don’t seem to know that. I’m fair-minded — I’ll even point it out to known Democrats.

I’m not a hardliner, honestly. I’ve voted, and even campaigned for, Reagan twice now — mostly on foreign policy issues, meritocracy and broad libertarianism — but even I can acknowledge that President Mondale’s done a number of things of great worth in his time in office. I don’t agree with the basic values, but at least he’s been pretty classy in implementing them. The solid welfare system and fair housing are good; the soft foreign policy and pie-eyed economics less so. I’ve got nothing against a solid welfare system, and right now I think the Cold War might sort itself out on its own. I’d thank Gorbachev for that, though — not Mondale. Yeah, I’m pretty naïve at this point.

It’s funny. I look up to Reagan, but I’d never want to meet him. I know if I ever did, he’d look down his nose at me like I’m some kind of decadent sex maniac (which, to be fair, I am), or even an outright parasite (which, well... I hope not). It’s tempting, sometimes, to just give in and be a liberal. Don’t worry, be happy — you have no duties, only privileges! Just be yourself! Their policies would certainly benefit me personally a lot more. But I can’t just pretend all the people trapped in the Soviet Union don’t exist — or for that matter, all the middle American working class schmucks whose day-to-day life depends on a solid economy. People don’t stop mattering just ’cause they don’t own a polo shirt or have a college degree.

I nod. “Party of freedom and individuality, ultimately. I guess my personal ideal Republican is more like a Libertarian that’s chill with a moderate degree of welfare — a compassionate conservative. The Democrats want the loyalty of the Bill Mahers and Howard Heplers as well as the Catherine MacKinnons, Saul Alinskys and Jesse Jacksons — but once they get real power, they’ll always quietly side with the MacKinnons over the Mahers. It’s truer to their radical base, and their basic ideology of wanting to be a paternal government — to reform the nature of the people rather than to serve them.”

Livia cracks up as I finish the brief monologue, and her laugh isn’t a complementary one. “What?”

“It’s just... you’re so naïve, Marcelo. So many fancy words and ideas to justify picking the Red-Themed Arseholes over the Blue-Themed Arseholes. They’re all still arseholes, and not that different from each other — and none of them actually believe the bollocks they shove at us proles. It’s just turtles all the way down. I can’t really understand people that waste their time on it.”

This isn’t an off-the-cuff comment. Livia’s cynical — she thinks of all politicians as hucksters and puritans. Mimi, of course, ignores politics. I guess that’s what bimbos do. In a way, I suspect it can be merciful — to just never worry about the big stuff. Livia and I gingerly talk about it a bit more, and while I doubt the topic wins me any respect from her, I don’t mind — I’m left confident that a political clash won’t wreck the Trips in the months to come, and that’s what had really worried me.

We eat our chicken legs in quiet silence — Livia sneaking glances at the waitresses with lecherous intent, and me watching Livia with a more contemplative mindset.

While I don’t stare at Tempest and Audra, I do cross my arms behind my head and lean back in a cocky pose once I finish my portion — stretching my wine-colored silk shirt over my torso exactly as the pose is designed to do. Tempest and Audra both look twice — it’s got to be a nice change of pace for them, to ogle the customers rather than the other way around. I keep eye contact with Livia, though, trying to look casual. It’s spoiled a bit by her own inability to keep her gaze above my neck as we talk — but I really doubt the waitresses are looking at her right now.

It’s not long until they bring out our entrées. Livia’s is predictably eye-catching — it’s just two shish kabobs with steak, hash-browns, carrots, cucumbers and seasoning, but everything is close together and cut into a perfectly cylindrical shape, making the kebabs look suspiciously like two huge dildos. Livia picks one kebab up and licks it tenderly. The two waitresses stare at her.

Audra grins cheerfully. “Could we... ah, could we perhaps get a photo of you trying the Tubesteak?”

They do have a wall of photos of their patrons — most of them focused on pretty women. Livia looks really enthusiastic, but I interrupt before she can agree too readily. “For marketing?”

Audra gets a sheepish look. Gotcha! “Uh... yeah, if that’s okay.”

Livia’s a centerfold, and she’s really glammed up today — she actually looks very erotic and eye-catching doing anything suggestive with the kebab. That’s valuable — we want to leverage it. “I’m sure Livia would love to pose for some photos — but we want something from you in exchange. We’re fascinated by your uniform shirts. No, no, this isn’t a bid to get you undressed — well, not unless you want it to be at least. But we noticed they’re not made from normal fabric...”

“Yeah,” Audra agrees, “aren’t they just to die for? They’re like, spandex or something, made to look like a dress shirt. They’re actually really nice — they show your figure clearly, but they’re also comfy to wear and don’t restrict movement or chafe. That’s very handy in the service profession.”

“Yeah, it’s even handier for a risqué stage magician, too. Do you know where we could get some for our own costuming needs?”

“Sorry — we get them sent in from Corporate in Canada, once they get our measurements.”

“I figured it would be something like that. Can you tell me who to talk to about it?”

Audra can’t, but Tempest does — she actually warms up a bit here. I think she admires the practical thinking. We talk business a bit, which I’ll skim over — the connections we get here will actually be really useful to us, but that comes much later. Right now, Livia’s apparently going to pose for some photos with two really suggestively-prepared shish kabobs.

Tempest goes and gets a nice Nikon camera and snaps several, honestly pretty lurid, shots of Livia playing on the phallic imagery — reaching her tongue out to lick the tip, positioning both skewers pointing at her face like a gangbang porn-star (and replicating their faux-intimidated look perfectly with her eyes) and even deep-throating one. She’s in the stripper gown, with her ‘fuck me’ glamour girl makeup, and she’s right in her element — being ridiculously sexy by just being ridiculous. By the time she finishes playing with her food for the cameras I’ve got a raging boner and Mimi’s staring at her with love-sick puppy-dog eyes.

Livia’s been a bit temperamental recently, but this definitely pushes her toward the manic-optimistic side — she’s energized by attention and desire, and by the end of her impromptu photoshoot we’ve got everyone in the restaurant, patrons and waitresses, clapping and cheering for us. She glances from Mimi to me and back to Mimi, and gives out a rich, satisfied cackle. I have no doubt her photos will bring Remedial thousands in advertising revenue alone. It helps that she clearly has so much fun doing this kind of thing.

Disappointingly, however, while Audra and Tempest are genuinely amused, there’s no sharply indrawn breaths, embarrassed repositioning of legs, unnaturally wide eyes or any of the other signs that say “I need her in my bedroom tonight, no matter what.”

That’s not good — Livia really wanted Cathy, and I think she’s still a bit bitter about not getting her. I hate watching her get her hopes up only to keep getting cunt-blocked by the rampant heterosexuality in our society, and I can see she’s pretty into Audra — and was from the second they talked after the Hostess Central show.

On the drive home, I told Livia that I thought Audra might be bi, based on... well, let’s just say certain hand placements and facial expressions that emerged in the oatmeal pit. The problem is, though, even if Audra is bi, I’m not sure she’s really into Livia as a person. Bi girls aren’t inherently into every other bi lady they meet, after all.

It doesn’t help that, while I appreciate teen sex comedies because I remember the distant past when I was like the desperate, awkward teen male lead and thus enjoy seeing him get some, Livia’s learning to adore such films because, on some level, she still is said dorky male lead. Make no mistake, you put her on stage and her charisma shines out like a goddamn floodlight. In more casual social situations, though, she can be really awkward. She doesn’t always hide her horniness well or present it appealingly — she hired a pickup artist for a reason, I guess. Guys won’t give a fuck when they see her figure, but girls — especially curious instead of affirmedly sapphic ones — don’t always react as positively.

The waitresses are courteous enough to quickly re-heat our food after the photo session. While they’re gone, I whisper to Livia. “You’re quite the size queen, I guess.”

“Hell no,” Livia laughs. “I mean, I like a huge cock now and then, as a novelty, but there’s more positions you can do with a merely above-average one — and even a tiny one isn’t a deal-breaker. I dated a guy with a micropenis once, honestly, and I wouldn’t give up the memories for the world. A black guy, ironically enough. He had this amazingly exotic, smooth Kenyan accent, and that sense of hope and enthusiasm so many new immigrants had back then in the UK. More importantly, though, he had biceps like tree trunks, and when he wrapped his arms around me I’d feel protected, warm and safe — and yet also completely dominated. Now, those arms... some people would say they were overcompensation, but if you want my opinion they were just-right-compensation, if you know what I mean?

“As for the actual equipment, well, weirdly it’s not that different from a clit — and I sure know my way around those. It’s a nuisance as far as protection goes, but I can lick it just fine, or wear a diaphragm and try out scissoring with a dude. Yeah, we weren’t as worried about STDs back then in Birmingham, I admit — nobody had even heard of Hepatitis! And let me tell you, penis size does not correlate to load size, because boy could he let loose with it! I wish I had known how into facials I am, back when I dated him.”

As a result of this, we’re all engaged in mysterious conspiratorial giggling with Tempest and Audra bring the food back.

Livia’s gauging me, I realize, much like I did with her. She wanted to check if I’m more jealous or possessive than I appear up-front, just like I wanted to make sure she’s okay with my politics. I’m pretty sure I pass the test, even though I recognize it.

The Tex-Mex chicken breast is actually really good — lean meat, very tender and a really nice, thoughtful combination of spices that’s hot without trying to do the macho “our X-treme chili is too hot for you to handle” bullshit tacky places always try to pull with spicy dishes. Yeah, no shit, I’d rather have good food than stuff the contents of a bottle of raw cayenne pepper in my mouth in some deranged attempt to validate my masculinity — go figure!

Honestly, the quality is shocking given that it’s being served by the same restaurant that serves dishes like Tawny’s Two-Hander (a double burger), the Baloney Pony Stacker (a baloney sandwich cut into the shape of an actual pony), the Frisky Fellow Limoncello, Peanut-Smuggling Perky Pastries and, worst of all, Packwood’s Pickled Package — which, the cheeky menu informs me, is “served free of charge to all attractive young interns in the DC area!”

Ah, Senator Packwood — such an unfortunate name for a man destined for a messy sex scandal. Stay classy, menu writers.

Mimi’s fish taco actually looks mouth-watering, too — breaded halibut, fresh lettuce, Indian naan bread and a special sauce that smells vaguely like Thousand Island or Big Mac sauce but isn’t quite either. It’s also cute how they arrange the greens above them instead of around them, to suggest the image of a neatly trimmed bush. Once the lurid comedic posing is over Livia eats her kebabs ferociously but neatly, with a fork and knife.

“I couldn’t help but notice your earrings,” Livia tells Audra when she’s next at our table. “Is that the udjat eye?”

Audra frowns, not recognizing the term. “They’re from my meditation group,” she tells Livia. “My guru got them for me when I completed the first year classes. He told me I can have, do or be anything I want to be!”

Mimi looks up at Audra, wincing in sudden sympathy. “Oh, sweetie, that doesn’t work as well as they promise! Trust me; I tried it.”

Audra looks interested. “Really?”

“Yeah. The guru told me I could be anything, so I decided I wanted to be a mountain lion made out of rose quartz. Well, I went out into the desert and did their visualization mandala thingy for three whole days, but I never got to become a pretty crystal mountain lion.”

“Uh...” Audra says, baffled.

I take the reins of the conversation, addressing Mimi. “You gave up?”

“No. The moon got really angry and started shouting at me, so I had to stop.”

Tempest silently mouths the words, “What the actual fuck.”

Audra stares. “The... moon...”

Mimi nods. “Yeah, I know, right? I used to think it was just a big, inanimate rock in the sky too! Science teachers leave out all the interesting stuff. Like, I didn’t expect it to have a mustache...”

Audra looks annoyed. “Are you fucking with me?”

Mimi blinks innocently. I mean... she has to be, right? If she is, though, she’s got enough endorphin-fueled verve and enthusiasm that I want to believe she’s really that dumb — and really that nuts. She takes a moment to ponder the question — from her side of the conversation, it must be a bit of a non-sequitur. “Do you... want me to be fucking with you?”

“No!” Audra snaps, likely feeling her beliefs are being mocked.

“That’s a pity,” Mimi says. “I’m really good at fucking, especially with other women. I fuck with myself all the time — how else could I stay this cheerful?”

There’s more truth in that than the waitresses realize, given how much of Mimi’s bimbo cheerfulness she can bring on just by looking in a mirror and saying her own trigger words. Audra seems intimidated, taking a step back from Mimi, but Tempest quirks an eyebrow in playful curiosity. “You don’t say.”

“I just did.”

“What is it with you and mountain lions?” Livia asks peevishly.

“I had one as a pet when I was in junior high.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, sort of. I found it.”

Tempest is skeptical. “Where do you just ‘find’ a mountain lion?”

Mimi rolls her eyes. “In the mountains, silly! I mean jeez, it’s right there in the name. You ought to read more. I’ve got these sweet animal coloring books if you’re interested...”

Tempest is flummoxed, and I can’t blame her. I’m honestly impressed by this display of conversational insanity, and wonder if it’s just patter, or if any part of it is true — of if, even more strangely, Mimi asked Livia to hypnotize her to believe this kind of stuff.

“I can’t imagine this story ending well,” I say dryly.

Mimi nods mournfully. “Mum made me let it go. She said I’m not allowed to keep anything as a pet that can eat anything she keeps as pets. But it’s all cool. I only did that visualization stuff back in grade school; I’ve grown up a lot since then. I’d never want to be a mountain lion these days.”

“Well,” I tell her glibly, “you might not get to be a mountain lion, but in a decade or two you’ll definitely be a cougar!”

Mimi looks baffled. “What’s the difference?”

Despite me directing it at Mimi, this gets a laugh from the waitresses — as intended.

“What about us?” Tempest asks, in a more friendly and even slightly sly tone.

“Foxes can’t become cougars,” I explain slyly. “They’re different suborders in the taxonomy. You can both be vixens, though.”

“Cute,” Tempest says dryly — but she’s melting. I can tell; it just takes a bit of wit and persistence.

“But I don’t want to be a cat anymore,” Mimi whines. “These days, I’d much rather be a Hercules beetle! Those guys are awesome...”

I don’t have a response to that, so I redirect the conversation. If Audra’s a New Ager, I’ve got a pattern that will work on her for sure — and should be at least moderately resistant to Tempest’s snark, if I don’t take it too far. “So, Audra, has your guru ever done any dream interpretation work with you?”

It’s a simple enough routine, if you know any symbolism — you just see what the girl tells you, match things up to erudite mythological metaphors and drop in a casual reference to any one of the long list of things Sigmund Freud said are signs of repressed sexual desires. It’s easy, provided you’ve actually done the background reading. In most cases, the babe will zero in on anything about sex on her own — sex is attention-grabbing, after all.

“No,” Audra says. “This sounds really interesting. How does it work?”

“Well, first you need to describe to me the most recent dream you can remember vividly.”

Audra stops and thinks. Most people can’t remember their dreams, but for whatever reason they’ll make something up. However, before Audra can figure out what to say, Mimi interrupts. “Ooh, I’ve got one! Do mine! Last week I had that dream where a bio-organic radar dish grows out of my vagina and starts picking up pornographic radio broadcasts from the long-extinct gastropoid civilization that once dwelt in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud. Have you ever had that one?”

Damn it, Mimi! Well, that popped the mood like a soap bubble. Tempest and I both glare at Mimi in irritation even as Audra stares in puzzled shock. Stop dropping shit into the conversation that no sane human being has rehearsed a response for — it’s frustrating! I catch Tempest’s gaze for a second, wondering if she’s thinking the same thing I am, or just creeped out on a more general level. If it’s the former, I feel a weird bond with her — but I can’t be sure.

“No,” Audra finally says, “I can’t honestly say I have.”

Miriam reads all kinds of weird science fiction; Mimi, obviously, does not — so I guess it’s not too inexplicable that the imagery worms its way into her dreams at times without a discernable source.

The waitresses collect our dishes quietly as I try to figure out how to salvage the pickup from here. Once they’re out of earshot, I turn to our resident hypno-bimbo — who, I remind you, has expressed desire for the waitresses herself and was right there when Livia ordered me to run pickup on them. “Mimi,” I hiss at her, “as a wing-lady, you’re the damn Hindenburg!”

“I’ve been dieting! Honestly! Do I really look fat?”

I’m pretty sure Mimi has self-conditioned herself to comedically misinterpret things people say to her on reflex as part of her whole bimbo schtick — but I still don’t like any layer of her psyche thinking I’m ragging on her weight. Nobody sane would call her fat, but she is a slight bit fleshier when you put her right beside the guy everyone called Shrimpster in high school and the perfect 38-24-36 Clubhouse Treat. It flatters her, though — she’s in that Dolly Parton-Kitten Natividad space; cute, baby-faced, high-pitched and super-busty. Losing weight would make her look worse, guaranteed.

I don’t say no, though. I don’t even dignify the comment — that’s the best way to remind her that it was a stupid comment, as opposed to being “sensitive” and taking it seriously.

“Mimi? Can I ask you something, in all sincerity?”

“Maximum for-sure!”

“What’s the big appeal in being dumb, anyway?”

She considers, but only for a second. “Bimbos don’t angst,” she tells me blithely.

I don’t really digest her assertion right away, as the waitresses are making their way back to our table and I need to up my game. Fortunately, Audra gives me an amazing opening. “You’re a pickup artist? How does that even work?”

“Well, you mostly spend an hour or two trading dumb put-downs with dim girls, barbing and fencing, as you each try to convince the other that they can justify spending the night together without lowering their standards. If the girl’s smarter, though, you can just skip a lot of that bullshit and have extra time left over for the raw animal fucking.”

I put the emphasis on the last three shock-value words, to distract from the suggestion in the prior text.

“I need to learn more put-downs,” Mimi whines petulantly at her own fingers. We all ignore her.

Tempest rolls her eyes. “If you’re such a great pickup artist, what are you doing h—oof!”

Audra elbows Tempest to shut her up. Okay, confirmed — so, Remedial really is a house of negotiable virtues, but the girls also don’t want to be too up-front about it. It suddenly clicks with me — despite her brassy confidence, Tempest is actually the new girl here. Audra probably recruited her after she blew out at the strip club she mentioned, and she’s using her routines to keep guys at arms length as she figures out which ones she wants to be offering the alleged extras to. Maybe none, yet — maybe she’s still finding her feet at Remedial, despite being comfortable in the most revealing form of their uniform.

“So, it’s all just insult fencing?”

“Nah,” I tell her. “I don’t even really like that part. There’s lots of more positive stuff too. Pickup artists constantly talk about demonstrating value. I think there’s some value in demonstrating value (pun intended), but —”

“Yeah,” Tempest interrupts, “I know this bit. You’re a nursing student living in a flophouse, but you talk to the surgeons you work with to figure out how to convince girls you’re a successful surgeon, right?”

“Ouch,” I chide her playfully. “Personal experience?”

“On at least a weekly basis,” she confirms wryly. It’s a step up for me — she’s sharing a form of camaraderie with me instead of using cut-down lines.

“Well,” I tell her calmly, “a competent pickup artist doesn’t do that. Actual lying is a loser’s game — you want to act like a big shot and believe you’re a big shot, and eventually you’ll become a big shot. You don’t have to (and shouldn’t) claim anything you can’t back up — it’s just a matter of changing your personal frame. Of course, you also want to be able to turn it off, so you don’t end up turning yourself into a narcissist. Anyway, that isn’t demonstrating value — it’s a different concept called presenting status.”

Both Tempest and Audra are fully engaged. I already had Audra, and I think Tempest is genuinely interested in learning about this — so she knows our tricks, either to defend against them or use them herself. It’s still a bit weird — macking on women that know I’m a pickup artist, and talking about it openly. But I’m getting used to it and getting into a groove with it.

Tempest smirks. “I get the value of pretending to be a big shot if you want to pick up girls, but in your place I wouldn’t admit to it. Oopsie...”

“Not oopsie,” I correct her, “and not pretending to be a big shot — acting like a big shot. Presenting status is a tool of theatricality and romance, not deception. It gets even more fun when the girl’s on board — but it’s a bit complex to explain why. We’re talking about sexual attraction here, drawing girls in for torrid flings we hope they’ll enjoy as much as we do. My art is not about building a deep relationship on fraud, and I would never endorse that. So, in that context, what you need to understand is that many women find status indicators erotic. The second word is important here — not status itself, but just the indicators.”

“Color me skeptical,” Tempest tells me. “I’m not sure why I’d want a fake big shot over the real thing.”

“Who’d you rather fuck — me or Danny DeVito? Or, if you’re looking for someone with more real power, maybe you’d prefer Mao Zedong?”

“Ew!”

Audra laughs. “He’s got you there, Temp!”

Tempest tries to cover a smile. “Still not buying it.”

“Well, there’s a simple and scientific way we could test this, if you’d like.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. First, you fuck me now. Then, once I’ve gone out and become an A-list celebrity superstar, we’ll try it again so you can compare and contrast the experiences. So... are you willing to wager your body in the pursuit of science?”

She laughs. “Keep dreaming, hot shot!”

“Such lamentable provincialism.” I give her my best doofus-smile. “Have I told you yet my cock tastes like caviar?”

She rolls her eyes. “Is that caused by a freakish piscine mutation, or just really unsanitary dining practices?”

I laugh, undaunted and unoffended. “Good one! Anyway, status indicators. We need to understand the background of why they are sexy. It comes down to instinct — most people follow their instincts, while self-actualized people make self-aware use of their instincts to gain pleasure and fulfillment.”

That really grabs Audra — it’s probably vaguely similar to something her guru told her. “So, women instinctively find status indicators sexy. If you’re a creep, you could use that to insult women collectively — saying they’re superficial, gold-diggers, climbers, whatever. But that’s not supported by the facts. Before you turn that exercise into some kind of philosophical treatise, you need to understand that it’s just a neurological anachronism. The biggest fallacy some pickup artists — the asshole ones, if I’m being honest — make is understanding evolutionary biology but not being able to compartmentalize that understanding, to keep it out of a civilized moral framework.

“Let me draw a simple analogy. Say you’re into big tits, right? Most men (and a fair number of ladies) are. But when you see a girl with a really nice pair walk down the street and stop to admire their beauty, you’re not really thinking, ‘Wow, those will be really useful to her to nurture my kids with her milk one day, making her an ideal mate!’, are you? Of course not — the evolutionary purpose of the impulse is utterly obsolete in a world of silicone implants and baby formulas. But you still love yourself some nice knockers, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You’re just wired that way. In fact, it’s healthy. Admitting it is just being honest with yourself about your own desires.”

Neither waitress seems to pick up the subtle, guiding suggestion that they might appreciate breasts themselves — they’re interested in where I’m going with this.

“Now, women are exactly the same way — the only difference is, often most of your buttons are behaviors rather than body features. So when, as a pickup artist, I flash status indicators, I’m not actually asserting some real qualification any more than wearing a Wonderbra serves to falsify a lady’s Lactation Resume — I’m just pressing a metaphorical button lots of women enjoy, much like I enjoy it when a lady motorboats me.

“If the girl is dumb or average, you just quietly press the buttons and make her happy — without serious deceit or false promises, obviously. If she’s smart and self-actualized, though, you can actually go a fair bit farther. There’s no reason to be ashamed of being turned on by signifiers of wealth and status, just like there’s no reason to be ashamed of being turned on by a pair of really fantastic cans. It’s just evolutionary psychology — we’re all born this way, so we’d might as well enjoy it, you know?”

I’m taking Tempest’s sarcastic intro-monologue far more seriously than I think she meant it here — I’m not blind to that; it’s very much intentional, as it gives me a great setup. “You just explain this, and she’ll admit she likes it, and will even cooperate to help you zero in on the status indicators she most enjoys. The Armani suit, the bouquet of roses, the classy etiquette, the opera music, the formal speech patterns, the chocolates on Valentines, the milk bath coated in rose petals — they’re all rituals to give her a thrill, just like her giving you flashes of her cleavage is.

“As long as she can admit to herself that she enjoys being charmed and romanced by someone who acts important as much as you enjoy charming her, it becomes a cooperative effort to push those buttons. Romantic rituals can be as divorced from serious relationship commitments as motorboating is from feeding babies.

“Now, when I first met Tempest, she told me she likes money — but I’m willing to wager that the thing she actually likes is prestige; the tingly feeling she gets from a combination of perceived power, sophistication and aristocratic wit. I’m actually trying to help her decompile what she means by ‘men who are worth her time’, because I think that if she understood it better herself, she’s find more of them out there — and her sex life would suddenly get a whole lot spicier. And I think that she might ultimately find out that what she really likes is a man who can play the part more than just a man who merely is the part. Does that sound accurate, Tempest?”

Tempest bites her lip — she’s actually really thinking about it, and for once doesn’t have a brassy response ready. “Maybe,” she says guardedly. Gotcha! Damn, that’s satisfying. “I’ll think about it.”

“You know,” Mimi throws in cheerfully, “it’s not a bad deal for us ladies either — motorboating is a lot easier to learn than pickup routines!”

Tempest laughs in spite of herself, shaking her head. “Yeah,” she says, “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

Here I am, quite candidly explaining what I do and how I do it to these women — and it’s still working great on them regardless. Like I said — if I were an asshole, this would be an excellent opportunity for me to reach a smugly cynical conclusion about their mental abilities. I’m not an asshole, though, and in my worldview it only reaffirms a far more profound conclusion: the women I use this stuff on really do enjoy having it done to them, and (normally subconsciously) cooperate with me as I perform. It’s fun to be seduced, isn’t it?

Heck — the greater portion of the patterns I’ve created myself hinge on that willing participation. It’s a free ego massage for them, which often leads to a free cock massage for me. Everybody goes home happy!

I glance back at Livia and Mimi. Livia’s watching me intently, trying to figure the tricks out. Don’t worry; I’ll be happy to explain them all later, in detail! Mimi’s examining her hands and being quiet. I feel a bit bad about that — but I also do want this chance to prove myself, and I can’t do that if she derails everything. So I’ll reassure her — just, later.

“Okay,” I say, “then the next step is to take some guesses about the kind of indicators Tempest likes the best.”

“Wait,” Tempest says. “Is this leading up to some kind of indecent proposal?”

I fix a steely stare on her. “Yes.”

Never deny it. Just be shameless about it, and flash your best shit-eating grin. If you get a drink in your face, well... that was going to happen anyway, and at least you saved yourself some time. If you don’t, then...

“You have no idea how many of those we get in this job.”

“And yet, your tone tells me you’re not offended by this. More... flattered?”

It actually doesn’t. I’m telling her what to feel, here, albeit subtly. But she’s already melting, so it works.

“Being flattered doesn’t mean saying yes,” Tempest says.

“It doesn’t mean no, either, though,” Audra interjects.

“Well... since you’ve heard all the mediocre proposals, are you ready to hear the best?”

Tempest rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

“I must warn you — it is a bit explicit...”

“I guarantee you, I’ve heard worse,” Tempest says wryly.

“Eugh,” Audra says at the same time.

I look up at Tempest. “Well, I don’t want to offend your friend. How about I whisper it in your ear?”

Feigning exasperation to keep up her brassy persona and conceal real curiosity, she leans over close to me. I take her hand in my own and intertwine my fingers with hers. Her hair smells sharply and predictably of hairspray — I actually like that; I associate cosmetics with glamour, and glamour with eros.

Maneuver complete; perfect score! I just obtained explicit consent to whisper a lewd fantasy in a hot stranger’s ear — and set up a perfect prompt for her friend to try to prove she ‘belongs’ in the saucy talk.

I put on my best velvet baritone and whisper, speaking rapidly and decisively so she lets me just keep going and doesn’t interrupt. “I want you to imagine the passionate crescendos of Vivaldi’s Orlando Furioso echoing through your body. I want the scent of my Dior Fahrenheit to intoxicate you, paralyze you, devour you like a 1930s heroine in quicksand. I want to whisper my fantasies in your ear like the spectral lover from a high Gothic romance.

“I want to feel your body quiver from the tiny shocks of static electricity that pierce the most secret parts of your inner thighs whenever your stockings rub up against the hand-cured leather of my Belafonte pants. I want to hold you rapt with verbal poetry and layered sensations to such a profound extent that you don’t even notice my hands undoing the buttons of your uniform one by one.”

I really wish I wore my imitation Hublot, so I could reach up and stroke her hair with it hanging off my wrist right now. Sadly, I didn’t expect to meet Wealth Fetish Girl, so it’s in a dresser back in the Beast. For that matter, my pants are neither hand-cured nor from Belafonte, and while I do actually own Fahrenheit I don’t happen to have it on at the moment — just some anonymous cologne. It doesn’t matter — the mention of brand names mixed with sensual imagery creates a fantasy of sophisticated, urbane sexuality that aggressively arouses Tempest.

“I want to feel your heart rate quicken as some part of your mind perceives the ever-increasing, erotic vulnerability each opened button represents. I want to see what I can tell about the shape of your soul from the color and style of your brassiere before I gracefully unclasp the hook with one hand and unsheathe those treasures you’ve grown so very adept at using to transfix the hearts of men.”

Tempest is rapt. Her eyes are glassy. Her mind is far away. She’s almost in a trance, and I must confess I feel a power thrill. I wonder if this is how Livia feels, when she knows she has some pretty young thing in her hypnotic thrall. Plenty of men have likely told Tempest what they’d like to do with her body, but not like this. Attractive women are never ready for the knockout combo of confidence, smooth literacy and tasteful explicitness. Men don’t talk about sex like this, which is a shame — many women just love it when men talk about sex like this.

“I want to worship your lush body with my fingertips, tracing them all over your beautifully bronzed skin, adoring the tiny flaws and secret birthmarks as much as the flawless overall curvature. I want to feel your hands grasp in feverish erotic need at the smooth satin texture of the Armani dress shirt I’m wearing. I want to trace you and tease you with my smooth hands and hungry lips until it is you, not me, that forces my hand down under that luridly enticing plaid skirt to stroke and massage the quivering treasures held within it. I want to hold you close to me as your desire for me exceeds even that of Ruggiero for Alcina. I want to feel your most illicit warmth as I carry your desire over the sharp peak of climax and lead you gently back down again, until the music fades and you come to rest shivering in my arms.

“And once we’re finished, I’ll tip you generously and you can move on to the next table. If anyone noticed, I’m sure they won’t be too offended.”

Tempest’s eyes go wide with cognitive dissonance as she mentally replays the whole intimate scene I just narrated to her with us both being right here in Remedial, in full view of everyone. Her hands rise up to protect her chest, even though I never actually unfastened any buttons. She’s cute, looking so suddenly vulnerable. She glares, then finally bursts out in nervous laughter in spite of herself. I wink playfully at her, ever the scoundrel. “You... you son of a bitch!”

“Ladies,” I tell the waitresses. “You do have other tables, you know. But we can talk more in a bit — I’m sure my party can stay for dessert.”

The pickup lecture took too long, and the waitresses run around catching up with their other tables. I can see they’re rushing, though, to get back and talk to me, to continue the game — I’ve hooked their interest. Tempest is visibly flushed, her brassy composure broken. Livia sees it too, and is wildly turned on. She elbows me in the ribs boyishly. “God, slutty girls kick arse and eat arse too. Can there be any hotter combination? I think they’re more into you than us, though — at this point.”

It’s a cute line, but there’s bitterness and desperation behind it. I generally love it when Livia is lecherous, because it’s usually oddly wholesome — but for a moment here it crosses some kind of line, curdling and becoming dark. She’s staring Tempest and Audra, coveting them. Her knuckles are white. She grabs my arm suddenly, gripping incredibly tightly — enough to dig into my skin with those glossy purple nails of hers. “Oh, god, I... I want them. Get them for me, Marc. Make them want me. Do it! Please! I know you can...”

I squirm. It’s honestly repulsive. She’s pathetic and tiny, and it’s all the more striking for how much I normally put her on a pedestal — in this moment she reminds me of some of the sad, fat, lonely and bitter men who’ve come to me to learn pickup. But... over time, in my care, they got confidence and self-esteem, and mostly they got better entirely independently of their sexual success. And Livia’s a successful and mature woman — she’s just in one of her temperamental periods today.

Livia took time to explain to me that hypnotism isn’t sorcery or mind control. I wonder if I have to do the same thing for her now, concerning pickup. But she’s a wise woman, and self-aware. She sees the look on my face and understands. She bites her lips, and looks away, ashamed. “I... sorry. I know. Just an impulse.”

I sympathize. It sucks, knowing you categorically can’t have over eighty percent of the women you’re attracted to — can’t even really try. Then again, she’s bi, and a centerfold — she can probably bang most men, even really handsome ones, just by asking. She also has a beautiful lover (and hypnotic bimbo-slave) sitting right beside her who I can never have, so she really ought to count her blessings. I wonder if this is Cathy rebound, if it’s just her taking her time to come to terms with not getting Cathy the way I did.

“Choose deserts,” I tell Livia and Mimi. “We’ll look better if we have our selections ready.”

It isn’t long before the duo makes their way back to our table. I order the Big Melons Sampler, and Livia and Mimi order a Truant (Toffee) Tart to share between them — probably to try to entice the waitresses with sexy eating. The waitresses don’t leave right away, though. Livia elbows me, wanting me to make a move — but I don’t. I want one of them to start the game up again — and they do.

After a second, Audra smiles at me. “You said all that status stuff was something different. You were going to explain this whole demonstrating value thing, and you never did.”

Like I said, she’s a sharp lady — like Mimi, she’s just playing a role with the giggly blonde girl-next-door. “Demonstrating value is a lot simpler than presenting status. It’s just a way of standing out in a crowd where some people may be more attractive than you — using a rehearsed routine or pattern that is memorable, has a personalized impact on your conquest and makes you seem distinct from others competing for her attention.

“You just catch girls’ interest with little comedy or novelty routines — dream interpretation is one, or palm reading, or amusing stories. Something to catch a lady’s interest, start a conversation. Basically, I aim to entertain and amuse women when I’m with them — even if I end up the punchline of my own jokes at times. It sets a mood, puts people at ease. It’s, you know, fun.”

“So... do it. Demonstrate your value for us.”

I bat my eyelashes and give her an innocent smile. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

I give her my best grin before dropping the punchline. “If you want to go all meta with it, you can even demonstrate value by explaining the idea of demonstrating value...”

Tempest blinks, taking a second to mentally follow the recursion of my logic — then she gets it, and laughs. “Cute. Have you used this ‘meta’ routine on other girls?”

“Of course,” I tell her calmly. “Do you want me to teach it to you, so you can use it on other men? It’s really quite effective...”

And there it is: the basic act of replacing the reality girls have been socialized to accept with my own. Yeah, I sleep around to wild excess, and I don’t feel one single shred of guilt about doing so, and no — you don’t have to feel guilty about it either. It’s just fun; the pursuit of pleasure. No one should feel guilty about that — it’s strange that you’d even ask; get with the program...

Tempest smiles — a genuine warm smile that looks good on a face so often brassy and sardonic. I think she likes being in my reality more than her default one. It’s not surprising — most girls do. “I’ll... think about it.”

“More!” Audra insists gleefully. “Push my buttons!”

Well, there’s an open-ended invite. “Well, may I touch you? Nothing crass, I assure you.”

She bites her lip, uncertain, but finally nods. I stand up — and unexpectedly sweep her up in my arms, lifting her off the ground. She yelps in shock, but doesn’t resist — instead finally deciding to laugh, as she’s not sure what else to do. People turn to stare at us — but I think after the initial shock, both waitresses enjoy the attention. I continue the lecture in a fatherly whisper.

“Take something as simple as the bridal carry,” I tell Tempest even as I hold Audra in my arms. “You look for any good excuse to do it with a girl you’re working on, because it’s a common trope in so many romances and women’s fantasies. It’s an act that demonstrates both gentleness and strength, dominance mixed with old-fashioned chivalry. And, of course, it evokes the bridal chamber and what goes on in there without any need for the serious life commitments and neurotic preparation involved in actually getting there.”

“Hee,” Audra says, giddy and amused by how I’m breaking all this down so methodically even as I hold her in my arms.

“Finally, of course, you can see the obvious appeal in the act though linguistic reverse engineering. Cliches exist for a reason — they start as truisms, after all.”

I glance down at the grinning Audra. “So, Audra, did you enjoy being literally swept off your feet by a man? Was it your first time?”

Audra grins, looking peaked. “I... yeah, I did, and... no comment, but I promise you it won’t be my last.”

I set her back down. Tempest gives me a challenging glare — perhaps a bit jealous that I’m paying attention to Audra after the whisper-fantasy. “Your routines sound like they work great on little giggling schoolgirls that want a daddy figure,” she tells me defiantly, “but you’d be totally out of your league with a more assertive lady.”

“Not entirely,” I assure her in a cool, sagely tone — making sure to keep this entirely hypothetical, like an academic lecture. It’s a way of teasing them, of forcing them to put the emotion forward. “Dominant girls can be more complex to pick up, but it can be worth the trouble.”

Tempest crosses her arms, unwilling to give the obvious verbal prompt. Audra, however, didn’t miss her last diss and is happy to step up in her place. “So how do you pull the bitchy ones?”

Audra and Tempest clearly know each other really well — they compete and argue like sisters, yet they clearly also support each other in more serious matters. It’s cute and endearing, honestly, and makes me more attracted to both of them.

You may wonder, O Scornful Reader, why I’m investing such effort into seducing these women who are allegedly, not to put too fine a point on it, prostitutes. Livia told me to, but at this point it doesn’t look like they’re an option for her — but I’m still interested. It’s actually something I’ve done more than once before — for two reasons.

First of all, hookers bring so much raw, simple joy to the men of the world, and yet are so often devalued in turn. It feels genuinely nice to fête them, to make them feel significant and adored even if only fleetingly. Secondly, of course, it is infinitely more satisfying to have a prostitute fuck you as a lust-crazed lover than to have her fuck you as a mere client.

“I wouldn’t say bitchy, honestly — more just proud. And you don’t hit on them directly, past a point. You just show you’re still both confident in the face of, and comfortable with, their aggression — and then you give them an opening and see if they’re brave enough to make the first move.”

A few seconds of palpable sexual tension pass. Tempest walks up to me — right into my personal space, her face inches from my own. Our gazes meet, and I give her a faint brush of Eyefucking. She leans in and kisses me, aggressively. It’s not a wildly lewd tongue kiss, but it’s definitely on the lips — and she doesn’t flinch and pull away after a second, either. I respond in kind without pushing the kiss further. She has the confidence to finish elegantly.

I wink at Audra. “What do you know,” I tell her in an airy, casual tone. “It worked.”

You know, of all the magic words, I think ‘brave’ is the most evil — and the most fun!

“Okay. Well played. I’ll give you my number. Give me a call next week, and we can —”

“We’re leaving Savannah Monday night,” I tell her, trying to make my voice sound regretful, “and I already have a date tomorrow.”

Pickup artists often use an artificial time constraint to close a hookup. The concept is simple: the girl is tempted but cautious. If the guy is freely available now, and any time in the future, the caution is going to win out, and the girl will go home and become self-critical and doubting once the arousal and fantasy-mood passes; she won’t end up biting, even if she honestly wants to. Sex is scary, and that fear can win out over the desire for pleasure. So the smart guy contrives a scenario where this is the opportunity, and then it’s gone. She’s got to choose whether she wants him or not now, while she’s horny, instead of dithering for days as she makes up mental excuses not to indulge herself.

Livia understands this — she’s read my books, after all. I’m pretty sure it’s why the Trips don’t dally in cities after a big show as policy. We’re leaving Savannah on Monday on a strict schedule, and I honestly do have obligations tomorrow. I didn’t quite intend to use it on Audra and Tempest here — but it plays out that way, and boy will it get results!

Tempest bites her fingernail and does her best sexy stare. “So ditch your date. I mean, it’s me we’re talking about here.”

“Us!” Audra insists sharply.

The waitresses look at each other. Things are about to get awkward — or really hot. They’re not as uncomfortable as I expected. But I cut them off.

“I can’t. Formal obligation, not preference. Audra even heard me give my number to the Blue Team girls as a consolation prize.”

Not saying a word to you, O Curious Reader, about whether that’s actually true or not — or with who, if it is. You know the deal — I’m a gentleman. Read it however you want.

“Audra, you can’t argue with that — not when you walked off with a guaranteed hot date with Bradley!”

Audra sniffs. “That lunk sure is pretty to look at, but he couldn’t demonstrate value if his life depended on it!”

Tempest smirks. “Really? He, ah, ‘demonstrated his value’ all over your back last night — or so I heard.”

“Yeah,” she says wryly, “four minutes after we got our clothes off!”

Everyone laughs — except me; I seem more sympathetic. “Hey, cut the guy some slack. He was with two girls destined to be Debonair centerfolds; it’s understandable he was a bit overwhelmed.”

Tempest gasps in genuine shock. “I never said I was there, Marc!”

I wink. “Your voice never said you were there, but your eyes sure did! You can’t keep secrets from me, Tempest — but don’t worry; I’m not the type to kiss and tell.”

(I’m not! Honestly! Suffice it to say, some things happen much later with this duo that makes me writing this more acceptable than it may seem right now, O Unsettled Reader. And... nice catch, Brad, you dog!)

“Hey,” Audra interrupts. “I think the real issue here is the relative value of the main and consolation prizes. If you had them switched around, I feel we’re owed a bit of a debt here. I’ll bet it takes longer than four minutes for you to demonstrate your value!”

Yes, folks — I’ve managed to get my mark arguing in favor of my own sexual potency with me. God, sometimes I’m just awesome!

“I’m not sure it’s wise for me to take that bet,” I toss back, “but I think I’d still enjoy putting it to the test. When do the two of you get off tonight? The three of us were considering a bit of an informal after party before we blow town...”

Tempest glances at Livia and Mimi. The busty blonde has toffee running down her neck. Livia is kissing and licking it off as Mimi giggles. It’s... overt, and Tempest seems more intimidated and unsettled than aroused. Inwardly, I wince. I do, however, take one last shot to spin this for Livia. “You know, if you like my value-demonstrating routines, you need to see what Livia can do with hypnotism — it’s simply unearthly...”

Livia looks up and grins, mouth smeared with toffee. It’s hot — if you’re into girls, and into aggressive girls. If you’re not, it would be a pretty creepy look. The waitresses both flinch.

“Nope,” Audra says decisively, “No way. I saw what she did with Norma Jean back at Hostess Central. Sorry, I’m not into a big group party. You three have fun, though, with anyone else there.”

“It’s a shame,” Tempest whispers to me, so Livia can’t hear. “If you get some time off from the party, maybe we can do something more intimate together...”

“Well?” Livia asks eagerly, as soon as we’re alone again.

“I think they’re straight,” I tell her. “Maybe not absolutely, given the recent threesome, but it would take some time and effort to get them to expand their boundaries. This pickup is not going to work as a sharing thing tonight.”

And given their nice existing dynamic in a often-rough profession, I’m not willing to push them to do so. They’re each other’s support — I can read that much, and I don’t want to wreck it. I don’t say that part out loud, obviously — seeing Livia’s face fall is depressing enough.

“You chickened out.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “For now. I’ve got an instinct about this. We should move slowly here.”

“Get their numbers,” Livia tells me. “Ask them if they’d be into another show in the future. Mimi and I will occupy ourselves and give you space. We’ll catch a cab and be back at the Great Beast... but if the crib’s locked, and it probably will be, don’t disturb us until morning. You can put the food on the company tab — and, if you can pull it off, don’t hesitate with Audra and Tempest on my account. Nail these broads in the name of the Trips!”

Livia looks into Mimi’s eyes, and Mimi giggles with delight. A minute later, my two friends are gone — leaving me alone at Remedial with a bill and a huge plate of melon balls adorned with rapidly-melting whipped cream.

You know... let’s see where this goes. I pay the bill in cash, adding five extra twenties and giving it to one of the passing rollerblade waitresses to pass on to Tempest and Audra. But it’s a long wait before the duo make their way back to my now-solitary table.