Allen - Get laid or die trying: the field reports

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Copyright 2011 by Real Social Dynamics, Inc.

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First Gallery Books hardcover edition March 2011

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Designed by Davina Mock-Maniscalco

Manufactured in the United States of America

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Allen, Jeff
Get laid or die trying / Jeff Allen.
p. cm.
1. Allen, Jeff, 1976 2. Single menSexual behaviorUnited States
Biography. 3. Man-woman relationshipsUnited States. I. Title.
HQ28.A45A3 2011
306.8152092dc22
[B] 2010046739

ISBN 978-1-4516-2089-4
ISBN 978-1-4516-2091-7 (ebook)

In writing this book, I have stayed as close to the truth as I remember it. Most of the field reports were written within a day of the actual events and only edited later for errors and readability. Names of most principal players have been changed. I had literally thousands of interactions with people during the time frame of the story; I have obviously omitted many, and condensed some. No doubt my memory has occasionally simplified the line between cause and effect. I am confident, however, that my memory has not distorted the essential truths.

for my family

But for some players, luck itself is an art.

MARTIN SCORSESE, THE COLOR OF MONEY

W hat youre holding in your hands is a detailed and highly instructional manifesto on how a dude from Northern California went from being a lonely, angst-ridden maniac to screwing the shit out of nearly two hundred women. Is Jeffy the coolest guy everone of the iciest, most badass motherfuckers that ever did it? Or is he an immature self-pitying idiot, who indulges in a half decade sex rampage at the expense of all other areas of his life? The truths of life are rarely as black-and-white as most people wish them to be.

Being that this book records a period before 2009, some of the external pickup techniques would be considered old-school compared to whats out there today. The ideas in the pickup community are constantly evolving, and so its obvious that the methods popular six or seven years ago have been updated and improved (for example, he uses scripted routines, whereas these days Real Social Dynamics, or RSD, recommends starting conversations by saying Hi... with confidence and physical leading).

Youre about to read a story, a graphic account and manifesto, by one of the most lethally effective players to ever pick up a chick (yeah, I just said that). A dude who at times is so good at what he does its scary, and not in any figurative sense of the word. Its going to teach you how to walk like a pimp and talk like a mack, rock the karaoke mic like a belligerent Japanese tourist, kick ass like Van Damme and take names like a two-dollar MySpace whoreand after its all said and done, maybe even to find what youre looking for.

Interpret it, judge it, label it however you want. Just dont deny that Jeffy spits wisdom and his own truth in these pages, because youll miss whats being offered to you.

Owen Tyler Durden Cook
Real Social Dynamics
November 2010

T onight, while shopping for vermouth, I was punched in the face by a homeless person selling Street Sheet s on the southwest corner of Fourth and Mission in downtown San Francisco.

I walked out of the Jack in the Box already drunk, singing Winter Wonderland la Elvis Presley, slurring the words only somewhat intentionally.

Standing at the corner waiting for the light to change, I belched, loudly and unapologetically. The bum, standing in my immediate vicinity, took umbrage. Towering next to me, he barked, Ey mayeng... don be belchin in mah face like dat!

Shut the fuck up, bitch. My unthinking and immediate response.

WHAM .

When he hit me, I was actually surprised. I laughed and mocked him as I went for my brass knuckles. You think a homeless BITCH can hurt me?!

Truth is, I was stunned. My arms loaded with paper bags, bottles clinking, hed just sucker-punched me, a straight jab to the mouth. My pockets were stuffed with jalapeno poppers; I didnt have that instant access to my weapon, and he saw me going for it.

Pull dat shit out and see what happen, he crowed, agitated as fuck now. Walking off quickly as a crowd began to form, he darted into the alley, joining the indistinct figures of other homeless milling about in the shadows.

Im shaken up. I duck into a nearby restaurant and enter the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I discover a large bruise already forming on my mouth. Trembling, vacillating between rage and tears, I reach up and gingerly touch the spot.

It isnt a bruise. Its just dirt from his grimy-ass hand. I wipe it off.

I place my palms facedown on the counter and hang my head with a sigh. Diana, my girlfriend of four years, is leaving me, moving to Los Angeles in ten days, ostensibly to pursue her music career.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

S omeone is sleeping next to me, and I struggle to determine who it is. It appears to be an unattractive woman with an extraordinarily bad haircut. Im not sure, but I think its my sisters friend. I vaguely remember having sex with her at some point. Her mouth is open, and shes snoring loudly. I need to get the fuck out of here as quickly as possible.

I manage to stand and begin to look for my clothing. I find my tracksuit on the floor next to the bed. It is covered in chunky vomit, the source of the stench. Flashes of dinner at the sushi bar. I dont want to wear these clothes, but it looks like I have no choice. I shake the chunks off and pull on the pants, slip into my shoes and tiptoe out of the apartment.

I find my car and drive back to my mothers house. I enter the house as quietly as possible and strip off the putrid tracksuit. Im in the garage throwing it into the washing machine when my sister walks in, in her pajamas. It takes her a second to realize what I am doing, and why, and then she starts laughing. Hahahaha what the fuck, dude?! You nasty.

Yes, I banged your friend and puked on my tracksuit. In fact I may have puked on your friend while wearing the tracksuit and banging her. Im not sure. I close the lid and start the wash cycle.

Duuuuuude. You were fucked up last night, bro.

No shit. What happened?

We went out to dinner and then we went to the bar. Some ex-girlfriend of yours came down from L.A. to see you. You met her out in the parking lot and sat in her car for like an hour and then she left, and you started crying and rolling around on the ground out front of the bar. They were gonna call the cops, dude. We went back to Gretchens house, and, uh... you stayed there.

Ugh. Its coming back to me now. I was already wasted by the time Diana got there. In her car, I basically begged her to come back, proclaiming my love for her, etc. She just sort of brushed it off. She didnt even reject me... she just ignored me. The last thing I remember is sitting in the passenger seat and crying while she made me listen to her demo tape. Then she was gone. Again.