Secrets of a Round-the-Clock Pickup Artist

Women are easy. It's men who make things tough. Meeting women and getting laid is simple. It requires one part charm, one part looks, one part money and 97 parts balls of steel. Sometimes, though, formulas and lists and advice on pickup lines fall flat on the page. Sometimes you aren't convinced. Sometimes extraordinary measures are necessary to get lucky.

Corey Levitan is a guy like many other guys. Not average--just regular. What he lacks in height he makes up for in an easygoing personality and the ability to have a good laugh. He was perfect for this project. His assignment? Hit on every attractive woman he meets for one week. No personals, no friends of friends. Pure cold-calling. Instead of hitting on women he thought were obtainable, he had to speak to every one he saw. If he didn't employ our techniques 24/7, he wouldn't get paid. Turns out he was paid in full. Here's his story.

The Supermarket

Food shopping is better than clubbing for hooking up. It doesn't matter what aisle you're in; everywhere is the meet department. If you crash and burn with an attractive female in a club, you have to see her the rest of the night. In a supermarket, the talent recycles every 20 minutes.

My depraved sociology experiment begins with a tall girl (5'10") who looks like Jessica Simpson's older, sluttier sister. She's strictly top-shelf. (I'm 5'6" and can't usually reach the top shelf.)

I trail her around the market as she fills her basket, waiting for the moment to launch my first sexual torpedo. There isn't one. So I talk some shit.

"Hi, do you know where the milk is?" She points to the dairy case right behind me. I am forced to walk away. That's all she wrote.

I select a carton of two percent I don't need and search the store for her. I figure I might be able to score a laugh if I ask her where a different item is every couple of minutes until what I'm doing becomes obvious. (continued on page 144)Pickup Artist(continued from page 104) But by then she's already in line at the cashier. (Note: Hit only on the cart pushers; basket carriers don't stay long.)

Then I see my next victim, reading the labels on spaghetti sauce jars. She selects one and puts it in her cart.

Even as an old man, Paul Newman is still the guy chicks want.

"Is that a good sauce?" I ask. She's blonde and resembles Monique McMahon the fashion-model-in-waiting who in third grade wouldn't let me sign her leg cast because "the cool people had to go first." She jumps a foot in the air. She hadn't seen me at all.

"I've never tried that sauce," I say, attempting to slow her adrenal output. "Yeah," she says, looking like one of Robert De Niro's hits in Goodfellas.

She walks out of the pasta department and into the display case in my rejection hall of fame. Get a mop, please. There's a broken heart in aisle six.

All right, so commenting on the food doesn't work, but free samples are another story. From the end of the soda aisle I stake out who's headed for the display of cubed Swiss and cheddar. I plot a course to intercept a 5'8" target with long black hair and perky breasts.

"Which do you like better?" I ask, as we pluck one of each cheese variety.

She pauses giving me that "Why are you talking to me?" stare.

The stare frightens me off a little, but I'm not a sleazoid asking her sing. I'm a connoisseur of fromage talking shop. My eyes hold their ground.

"I like the cheddar," she says, in something resembling a Persian accent. Foreign accents are great. They could indicate unfamiliarity with our customs, such as "Don't sleep with a guy you just met by the free cheese."

"I like the cheddar, too," I say as I watch her saunter off down the aisle. I stroll up the next aisle and our carts nearly collide when I turn the corner.

"You're following me!" I say, robbing her of the chance to say it first.

She smiles.

"Hmm, we already did cheese, now we need wine," I say.

I was proud of myself for that one. "Come on, help me choose one," I insist. "I don't know anything about wine and I need to buy some for my place."

We exchange names during our cruise to the booze. Robyn shares some basic information about reds and whites. I pretend not to know anything, including how much of her information is wrong.

"What will you be drinking the wine with?" she asks as we reach the liquor aisle.

"Well," I say slowly, "a really cute girl, I hope." I gaze downward, then up again.

"Hey, you're a really cute girl," I say, blushing like a cheap zinfandel.

"You are bad!" she says, rolling her eyes.

"I', serious," I say. "Pick out your favorite wine and I'll share it with you tonight."

She's busy, she informs me.

"How about next Thursday?" I ask. I wasn't going to let our first date go unspecified.

"That's sweet, but I don't think so," she says.

I don't know what possesses me, but I grab her cart as she pushes it away. "At least give me your number, Robyn," I say.

She susses me out for a second, then offers her business card. Disappointing, but it's something.

While I wait to pay for the $148 in groceries I don't need, I receive a bonus at bat. A blonde from Uruguay doesn't have her club card. I offer mine. Just as the total rings up "a savings of over $3," I say, "Now you have to give me your number."

"Are you saying that my number is only worth $3?" she asks. "Why don't you give me your number instead?"

I oblige and then ask her for the three bucks back.

Hits: Nine.

Numbers received: Three.

Girls dated: Two.

Home runs: One. Even though I only got a business card from Robyn, I called her and made her laugh, for several weeks, until she caved in. We still see each other (or we did until this article came out).

Errors: One. I should have pushed harder for the blonde's number, not given her mine. Never in the history of number giving has a girl pushed digits received in this manner.

Bookstore

Never mind the generic feel of chain bookstores. They have places where you can drink coffee and talk, which greatly aids out cause, and magazines to browse. The only thing you have to prove is that you're not a nerd.

Intense readers are hard to crack. They're into their book learning, and that's that. You need to get them to look up at least once so they won't be startled when you interrupt.

I clear my throat several times, loudly, while standing two feet in front of the chair occupied by a fair-skinned girl with auburn hair and the most striking green eyes ever frozen to a hardcover.

No. she doesn't notice me. But everybody else in the bookstore notices the throat clearing emanating from the Gay and Lesbian section.

One embarrassing stroll to the magazine rack later, I find a dead ringer for Lucy Liu reading something called Aperture. The word means opening, and I think of one.

"You must know about cameras," I say. "What's a good starter digital camera?" This way, she doesn't feel like prey.

"I don't really know much," she responds, hurriedly putting the magazine back. "I'm interested, but I don't know that much."

Geez! I'm making her nervous. Why haven't I bitten my lip and talked to strange women every day of my life?

I'm interested in photography, too," I say. "Are you busy now? Let's get coffee upstairs and talk about it."

The echo of my ball siness hangs thick in the air, but I have nothing to lose. Cheryl agrees to coffee. The rest of my groundwork takes a week and two dates.

Hits: Three.

Numbers received: One.

Home runs: One. Cheryl had just broken up with a long-term boyfriend, hated bars and admitted that she was having trouble meeting people. She told me she had always expected to meet someone at a bookstore, but it had never happened. Until me.

Errors: None.

Laundromat

I have machines in my apartment building, so there's no need for me to take my dirty wash elsewhere. But I've never met anyone in my laundry room expect for the fat asshole who takes my shit out of the drier before it's done. So I pack a big laundry bag, lug it down the street and get set for an afternoon of washing, drying and lying.

It is impossible to hit here with super-market-like abandon. People pretend it's too loud, but the truth is, it's a small room where everyone eavesdrops on every word said. You have to choose your targets carefully or sacrifice all of them.

"I have a stupid question," I ask one workout goddess in sweats and a headband. "If you put more money in the washer, does it go longer?"

"The driers, yes," my new friend says, rolling her eyes. "The washers, no."

She then finishes unloading her drier and leaves. (Note: Drier unloading is equivalent to basket carrying in predicting imminent departures.) An amazing brunette, about 20, sits by the detergent dispenser. She's another intense reader. I get closer and see she's buried in a script. Hey, we are in Los Angeles.

"Is that a student film?" I ask. (If she had been older, I would have earned immediate points for thinking she was in school.)

"It's a play," she responds, barely looking up though obviously annoyed. "I'm auditioning."

"Sorry, I get nosy when I'm bored," I say. I figure that the only way to get sex out of a stranger is to convince her it's not what I want.

Two minutes pass.

"So tell me about this play," I say. She finally puts her script aside. Is my luck changing?

"It's about a woman who's professor of Eastern religions," she says.

"Eastern religions?" I say. "There's a great Zen garden right nearby where I meditate all the time." (OK, it was a lie. I was there once and couldn't sit still.) "What are you doing this weekend?" I ask. "Let's go together." Karen gives me her number and we do.

Hits: There.

Numbers received: One.

Girls dated: One.

Home runs: None. I didn't get fluffed, but it wasn't because I folded. Karen and I had our date, after which she told me it would be nice to hang out "as friends." (If I ever lose my sex drive, I'll take her up on that.)

Errors: Two. That drier-emptying thing and not screening my wash for colored briefs from my less refined years.

Car wash

Find a hand wash. They take longer, and if a chick cares enough to give her car the best kind of cleaning, you know she's also getting waxed.

"Nice day, huh?" I say to a blonde in a white dress. Her fingernails are long red talons. She blows cigarette smoke before answering. "Nicest," she says, without so much as looking in my direction.

"So what do you do?" I ask. "Are you a model?"

She blows smoke again. No answer. You know what I'm discovering? Being rejected by beautiful bitches really doesn't damage my self-esteem the way I thought it would.

This time, I don't even wait for the car-wash talent to rinse and repeat. When a new girls saunters outside to wait for her car, I start in while the blonde is still there. This shows her she meant as little to me as I meant to her.

"You know what Kimmie?" I say after I exchange names with my new friend. "I'm sick of asking people what they do. I'm not going to ask you that. I'm going to ask what your favorite food is," I say. "That probably says more about who you are."

Kimmie likes oysters. I am not making this up.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch as the blonde picks up her convertible BMW (figures).

"Kimmie I'm taking you out for oysters," I say. "Give me your number."

Hits: Eight.

Numbers received: Three (one fake).

Girls dated: One.

Home runs: One. Hey, Kimmie likes oysters But I don't think this has any long-term potential. She doesn't know any big words. We're talking blank stares at "clarification." And to tell you the truth, I don't like oysters.

Errors: One. When I pulled into the car wash, I made the mistake of actually having my car washed. So the man with the greasy towel flagged me over in the middle of my first rap. Later, I parked elsewhere and just pretended to wait.

Department of motor vehicles

Here you have all the time in the world to flirt with the beautiful woman in front or in back of you in line. If there isn't one, just leave--like you forgot something--and wait in the parking lot for someone interesting.

A smoking number with five-foot legs and horn-rimmed glasses gets in the license renewal line.

"Hi," I say. "Do you know if this is the line to renew licenses?"

Perhaps this is not the, best opener. There's a giant sign indicating just that; anybody who doesn't see it can't hope to pass the vision test.

After a minute, I speak again. Vision is on my mind.

"You know, some women don't look good in glasses," I say. "But you look great."

"Thanks" she says, introducing herself as Kristen.

Then I threw a curveball. I offered to guess her prescription. If the eyes appear smaller than normal, the person is nearsighted, bigger and they're farsighted--the degree of distortion indication prescription. This is something they teach us in dork school, I guess. But you can substitute whatever stupid shit you know to spice up the conversation; she's not going anywhere.

Are you an optician?" she asks. My God, she has just set me up for the line of a lifetime."

"No, I just like beautiful eyes."

Hits: Two.

Numbers received: One.

Girls dated: One.

Home runs: One. Busy woman, Kristen. Works god-awful hours at a law firm and her social life was hurting. She was happy to meet me.

Errors: None.

Restaurant during lunch

I met a friend there, planning for just this scenario. As we got up from our table, I looked around for the two prettiest girls eating together. This was my boldest move so far, but I was prepared with my best approach: honesty.

"I couldn't help noticing how adorable you two are," I say as I plop down next to the lovely ladies, who resemble the Bangles in their heyday. (By now I had learned that adorable is more of a compliment than hot.)

"I know it's a numbers game. So nine out of 10 times, you're going to blow me off," I say. "But if this is the one time you don't, we're going to have an amazing time hanging out."

Sheila and Valerie laugh out loud and we chat for 20 minutes about why guys can't be funnier and more honest when they hit on girls.

When Valerie goes to the bathroom, I order an iced tea and Sheila grabs my hand. "Corey, it's been fun talking with you, but I have to tell you something," she says. "We're on a date."

Yes, Sheila and Valerie. I had stumbled into the movie Kissing Jessica Stein. "This is our first meeting," Sheila says, "and it would be cool if you'd let us have some time to get to know each other." "Wow!" I say when Valerie returns. "I understand."

"Understand what?" Valerie asks.

"It's all good," I tell her with a smile.

Valerie goes to look at the jukebox. (I wonder which Indigo Girls tune she will select.) Then she waves me over, pretending to need help. She demands to know what Sheila told me.

"She said that?" Valerie asks. "No way! Wait, here's my number. I want you to call me."

Hits: Two.

Numbers Received: One.

Girls Dated: None. So far I haven't gotten Valerie to commit to a date. But I can't think of a cooler reason to be rejected than lesbianism.

Home Runs: None.

Errors: None. Pure confidence is good but requires a twist of humor. Another smart thing I did was to not choose one girl over the other.

Lingerie Store

The quickest way into a girl's panties is to have her show them to you on the rack.

I'm walking around the mall when I see a hot Latina organizing bustiers in a lingerie store. I dig nails into palm and walk in, informing her that I'm looking for a gift for my girlfriend.(I assume it's helpful to pretend another female is willing to fuck me on a regular basis.) Regina suggests some lacy bra-and-panty sets and asks my girlfriend's size.

"I have an admission," I say. "I don't have a girlfriend. I was walking by and thought you were adorable, and I just wanted to talk to you."

Adorable. It's a good word, trust me. Regina is floored, then smiles.

"Aw," she says. "I'm married, though."

Wah-wah goes the imaginary trombone. For the first time I decide to be honest about what I'm doing and get an on-the-spot evaluation of my technique.

"You were really funny," Regina says. "If I weren't married, I would have been interested because you have a sense of humor. Most guys start a conversation with 'Can I get your number?' Worse is when a guy says, 'My friend wants your number.' I'm like 'Dude, go.' Or 'Can I buy some lingerie for you?' God, I've heard that one so many times. But you worked your whole act without my realizing it."

She starts hanging up what she took off the rack to show me. "You're still going to buy something, right?" she asks.

Hits: One.

Numbers Received: None.

Girls Dated: None.

Home Runs: None.

Errors: One. Why can't I remember to scan for a wedding ring? I've wasted entire evenings on girls who loved the attention because they weren't getting any at home.

Elevator

You don't have to go out to hook up if you live in an apartment. Here's one way to meet women that has its ups and downs.

I get into the elevator, pretending to be headed one floor above or below wherever anyone gets out.

"I didn't know you lived in this building," I tell one blonde. "I haven't seen you around."

"I've lived here three years," she says.

"I need to leave my apartment more often," I say, smiling. Then I ask her name.

What's useful about this method is that it helps build your speed, since you have only 30 seconds to work.

"So what did you buy?" I ask a redhead with shopping bags as full as her D cups. Alas, she gets off before answering. Two women enter, talking about an apartment they were just shown.

"You girls looking to live here?" I ask. "Forget what the manager told you. I'll show you the real deal."

I take them to my place, meticulously cleaned by a maid in preparation for my week of hard hitting. I answer their questions and exchange numbers with the cuter one. Then I get back into the elevator with them and stay there after they exit.

Hits: 12.

Numbers: One.

Girls Dated: None. But later in the week, the apartment hunter called and tried to set me up with her friend. (Oh well, at least your fantasy life improves after two girls walk around your bed and check out your stuff.)

Home Runs: None.

Errors: One. You should ride the elevator for only five minutes at a time, tops. I say this because the redhead with the shopping bags got on two more times. "Are you having fun?" she asked.

Traffic

Instead of avoiding road congestion, seek it out if you have a couple of hours and the weather is nice. Going three miles per hour offers a great opportunity to communicate with the mysterious firebrand revving her motor next to you.

I smile at a brunette in a Lexus SUV, just enough so she notices. Then I hold up a "one second" finger and pretend to write something with a marker. The truth is I've already tailored three signs for the occasion. She sits stone-faced at You're Adorable. So I hold up Yes, They are Bugle Boy.

She cracks up. Then comes the kill. Give me your cell number.

I plan to have conversation in the car. She mouths "boyfriend" and angles for the exit lane.

But this isn't half as disastrous as when my friend Lloyd makes his own sign on the back of one of mine. While I hold up Bugle Boy to the Latin girls blasting Tupac in a red Corvette next to us, he holds up Fuck us. They don't.

Hits: Twelve or 13 over the course of the week.

Numbers: None. This didn't work well, but getting girls to smile was an ego booster.

Girls Dated: None

Home Runs: None.

Errors. One. In the car I kept the signs on the center console, by my CDs. While on a date with Cheryl from the bookstore, she found them. You try explaining Fuck us.

Super Bowl Party

Unlimited alcohol and unattended women often provide an atmosphere conducive to an easy touchdown, which is why the week I chose for this assignment ended on February 2.

Normally I don't hit on beautiful cocktail waitresses. I hate unreadable girls who are paid to smile at you. But I need the warm-up because at this Super Bowl party, there will be actual Playmates. "I want to take you out," I say to a leggy brunette at the bar my friends rented in Hollywood. "What do you think of that?"

"I think my boyfriend would mind " she snaps.

Whenever a girl mentions a boyfriend, she turns into Charlie Brown's teacher. It doesn't matter what else she says. It could be, "My boyfriend just died and left me his penthouse on Central Park. Would you like to go there and have sex now?" All I would hear is, "My boyfriend wah-wah-wah-wah-wah...."

Anyway women are usually lying when they mention boyfriends. What kind of relationship can they have if they're in a bar by themselves with a Sea Breeze in each hand?

Suddenly five Playmates sashay in, escorted by three dudes who look like wrestlers. I climb into their reserved booth and scoot between the two who look untaken. "You know, I appear in Playboy, too," I say, putting my hands on their legs.

I admit, I busted out my big guns. Fuck the article, I'm trying to get laid.

I do all right, keeping the conversation geared toward the Playmate Fear Factor halftime show.

"What is the scariest thing you could imagine doing?" I ask, frightened out of my mind.

"I don't like spiders," says one.

After about five minutes a silence threatens to fall. I ask if they need a drink. (They don't.) I get up to go to the bar and try to think of another topic.

Turns out, I'm as ill equipped to think of topics as I am for looking 5'10" Playmates in the eyes. It doesn't matter, though. When I go to sit back down, I find Pauly Shore in my seat.

"Hey, that's one of the girls who just blew you off," says my friend Matt, pointing at the screen. (It was.) But some good has come out of all this. A girl in the crowd has been watching me closely.

"Playmates huh? Pretty impressive," she says before introducing herself. She's not a Playmate, but she is playful. By the final down we're dry-humping in an alley down the street from the bar.

Hits: 10.

Numbers: Two.

Girls Dated: One.

Home Runs: None. It's available from the dry-humper if I want it, though. She said she liked my confidence and the way I talked to everyone so easily.

Errors: One. Never take your eyes off Pauly Shore at a party. He is still the weasel.

•

I dated one of every 10 beautiful girls I approached. That's a bad batting average for baseball, but I approached 50 women (not counting my use of sign language on the road) and juggled five of them. Does that sound bad for real life? I'm pretty average specimen of manhood (or so I've been told during many breakup speeches.

Maybe you're wincing about making 50 hits a week. So let me tell you about my first date with Robyn from the supermarket. I told her to come to my place for some of her favorite wine before we went to a movie.

When she rang up to my apartment, I told her I was running late. I answered the door in a bathrobe and never got dressed that night.

Of course, unless you're Hef, dating five girls can be as much of a drain on the wallet as it is on the other bulge in your Levi's. And it's hared to keep track of who's who. All the phone calls that start with "Hi, it's me" get annoying.

I decided to keep index cards by the phone. Each girl had one with her name, number, how I met her and a brief description.

Sometimes things got really screwy. Kristen from the DMV had a stalker, whom she didn't mention until she called me from her cell phone en route to my apartment. The guy had tailed her for 20 miles. And get this--he was using a friend's car so she wouldn't spot him, just to see who she was seeing on a Saturday night.

"Don't be afraid of him," Kristen told me. "He won't hurt you. He's just crazy." After thanking her for confusing my intelligence of cowardice, I admonished her not to lead him to my door, no matter how many flowers I had waiting.

"Aw, you bought flowers?" she asked.

"No," I barked. "I saw In the Bedroom. Call the police now and get back to me after he has either killed you or gotten a new girlfriend." Ever notice how ugly girls never have these problems?

Fortunately, not only did I survive the week with my vital organs and four of my original five girls still talking to me, another one e-mailed to add herself to my harem.

"I've been buried in work, which explains why I didn't reply earlier," wrote Diana from the car wash. "Sorry about that. But if you still would like to get together, let me know.

Translation: "I've been doing another guy the whole time, but we broke up or I'm pissed at him, so now I'll settle for you."

And then there were five again.

Wow. What can I say? I wish I'd written for Playboy in high school.

"I have a stupid question," I say to one workout goddess in sweats and a headband.