WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF ALICE PELTON HAD A SEX CHANGE?
I don’t advise you read this article. What follows is dishonourable in the same way that fox hunting is dishonourable. It amounts to bullying. The poor fox doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does this author. Unlike our vulpine fugitive, however, this vermin sprung himself. We’ve been getting e-mails for weeks asking us to review this book. Apparently a copy was sent to the Beaver office. It’s since – worryingly – disappeared. Luckily, there are a couple of chapters posted online. I can’t guarantee the digital word is, verbatim, that printed. I can guarantee it’s not going to morph into Tolstoy on the page.
I’ve spent whole minutes of my life trying to unearth the real name of this guy, not least because I didn’t want to besmirch my Google search bar with his pseudonym. Aaron Sleazy (A.S.S henceforth) is the disquietingly proud author of Sleazy Stories: Confessions of An Infamous Modern Seducer of Women (S.C.A.M.S from now). On his website, A.S.S informs us that his credentials ‘include an MSc from the London School of Economics’. It might come as a surprise that not all LSE grads become world-leaders, bankers or astronauts. Some take the path less travelled by: they become pick-up artists.
The chapter I read is called “Do you want to fuck me?” I don’t even want to read this, so we are not off to a good start. Besides, it’s a misleading title because nobody ends up having sex. One night, A.S.S goes off to a club called The End, apparently on his own, where he spots a familiar group of pick-up wizards. They too have changed their names to make themselves sound more like superheroes: ‘One of them, Dr Yen, walked up to me to tell me I was a monster. My reputation apparently exceeded my actual level of skill’. A.S.S is modest enough to admit that his skill-level (he frequently refers to himself as if he were a Top Trump) is not, yet, ‘Monster’. I suddenly find myself fascinated by the Pick-Up Skill-Scale. What’s below Monster? Vampire Bat? And then what? Poisoned Frog? Field Mouse? I sense A.S.S rates himself as a Fanged Barracuda, but it would be nice for him to spell it out.
In fact, A.S.S is always leaving out tantalizing pieces of information. Like here: ‘“I need some drugs. Do you have some coke?” she suddenly asked. (I don’t do drugs, even though many believe the opposite to be the case).’ Do they? Why’s that then? Or here: ‘Later on she even said that she wouldn’t need anything tonight. However, I have reason to suspect that she snorted a line somewhere in between’. Do you? What reason? The sneaky Sleaze always keeps us guessing. It’s cute how he likes to make himself sound like a detective though (‘I have reason to believe…the opposite is the case’, and so on. Over and over).
That modesty I mentioned earlier doesn’t last, mind. Here’s A.S.S after leaving with a girl he ingeniously nicknames ‘Sunshine’: ‘After we got off the bus she wanted to buy some chocolate at a nearby gas station. This was when I realised that I only had one condom with me. I wanted to stock up and get a couple of extra large ones but they did not have any. Instead I bought some regular ones, but those usually lead to a rather bad experience.’ Poor A.S.S – like forcing a baby into a balloon. I completely understand. I’ve found that a well-restored 14th Century cannon, a prosthetic arm or a tube of Pringles – preferably paprika – does the trick in an emergency.
The Pringles should particularly appeal. Aaron Sleazy is also Aaron Quite Hungry. He’s forever eating. Here he is, safely back at Sunshine’s place: ‘I still played it cool. Instead I should have pinned her down and railed her right there. We took a break to eat some more. Because I felt stuffed I lied down and we cuddled for bit’. OK – so the retrospective rape-wish ruins the effect of the snuggy embrace, but we can forgive him that. Cookies, anyway, are still the way to a Monster’s heart.
My favourite quote from A.S.S’s chapter is also the most confusing. Out of nowhere, A.S.S gleans a weird and wonderful insight into his own complicated moral maze. At least, I think he does: ‘I liked this girl. I used to think that women who treat you nicely only do so because they don’t want to feel like sluts. However, I have later learnt that they have no scruples about using you only for your penis if this is all they desire. I was too concerned about “being in control” and thus acted aloof. This meant that I blew a chance to get to know someone as a person.’ I don’t really understand this, but I am now worried – this is turning into Jane Eyre. Has our arch-player gone soft – literally?
Luckily we’ve nothing to fear. A paragraph later and A.S.S is over it and back in action. This time he means business: “I grabbed her hair and fucked her head with a few good thrusts”. Nice bit of headfucking there. Sunshine begins to morph into a horse undergoing a medical examination: “I kept a grip on her blonde mane and yanked her head back and forth while I was administering forceful thrusts with my pelvis”. He then administers two milligrams of morphine and prescribes some antihistamines.
Soon after, Sunshine experiences a devastating orgasm that arrives ‘in multiple waves’ and leaves thousands without food or shelter. A.S.S’s honesty here is not only commendable, it’s hilarious: ‘She may even have squirted a little bit. I am quite sure that a small load splashed against the palm of my hand but I could not verify it because she had only lit some candles.’ A.S.S’s need to empirically verify Sunshine’s seasonal downpour proves one thing: you can take the pick up artist out of the LSE, but you can’t take the LSE out of the pick-up artist.
‘Sleazy Stories: Confessions of An Infamous Modern Seducer of Women’ by Aaron Sleazy is, it turns out, at Alice Pelton’s house. She was going to write about it this week but opted to describe anal ovulation instead. Turn to the back page for a drip by drip account of this miracle of rectal expulsion. Incidentally, if you do find you’re missing any of your porn magazines, sex toys or shit-specked petri dishes, it’s always worth checking with A.P before making the long walk to lost property. (But I do love her).
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