How to Archer (14 page)

By “amateurs,” I don’t mean women who are less-than-adept in the ways of love: I just mean non-hookers. And many, many, many, many women who don’t get
paid
to have sex are nonetheless pretty great at it. And these women are simply everywhere: in bars, at the market, at your job, in a doctor’s waiting room, on the bus
⁹⁵
, the wife of your host at a lavish dinner party… Name the location, and chances are there’s a hot woman there willing to have sex with
me
you.

I know, you’re thinking: “Are you serious? At my job? That seems like a terrible idea.”

Really? The place where you spend forty hours a week? Almost a third of the waking hours of your adult life? And you want to make that a sex-free zone? Are you serious?

Because there is absolutely no valid reason why you shouldn’t be systematically banging your way through the entire steno pool. If your employer has rules against this sort of thing, just lie about it. If you’re worried that a workplace sexual relationship will inevitably sour—which it will—just get her fired. This is easy to do, if you had the foresight to start stringing along your chubby, cardigan-wearing director of human resources, who will leap at the chance to eliminate her perceived competition. If you lacked this foresight, just put some drugs in her locker.
⁹⁶

Wherever you’re trying to bang these women (which should be everywhere), the key, as with pretty much every single other thing that you ever do in your entire life, is confidence. My confidence comes from the fact that I am not only devastatingly handsome but also the world’s greatest secret agent. I can’t help you with either of those two things, but I can give you some field-tested pickup lines (although I hate that phrase), in several of the world’s sexier languages:

And don’t bother plugging these into a translator on the internets (which is what I did), because they all mean the exact thing: I
am a secret agent. Would you like to have sex with me?
⁹⁷

I realize that it’s highly improbable that any women—including, hopefully, my mother—are reading this book. But in the unlikely event that you are a woman, and in the (infinitely more likely) event that you’re a woman who’s reading this book because you hope to one day—God willing—have sex with me, I thought it might be useful to include some tips about how to make your evening of pleasure as a sexual guest in my home not only magical, but also even more magical than that.

“I don’t pay them for sex. I pay them to leave.”
—George Bernard Shaw

Prostitution, like torture, can be an incredibly sensitive, often divisive subject. Unlike torture, however, it’s awesome. Think about it: In exchange for money, which you probably embezzled from your agency or extorted from a double agent in the first place, you can have amazing, adventurous, anonymous sex with a beautiful woman—or two or more women. Or a man. Or a combination of women and men. No one is judging you here. This is a safe place.

You’re probably asking yourself: “Wait, what am I missing? Can it be that simple?”

Yes. Don’t overthink it. Just put your money on the dresser and get banging.

I’m kidding, of course: having sex with a prostitute is actually a bit more complicated than that. For one thing, don’t ever put your money on the dresser: she will probably rob you.

Instead—if you don’t have a standing account with an escort service, and are thus forced to use cash—before your prostitute arrives, hide your wallet under the mattress. And not just near the edge: push it as far toward the center as possible. Because at some point during the evening (probably while you’re in the bathroom having your pre-coital bowel movement), she’s going to look for it. Which is why the wallet is just a decoy:
Always keep your money in your sock.
And your socks on your feet. If she asks why you’re keeping your socks on, just tell her you’re chilly. Or to shut up, you’re not paying her to talk.

What you
are
paying her for is limited only by your imagination. Or, more accurately, by whatever specific sexual acts that she is willing to perform, each of which will have a specific and non-negotiable price.
⁹⁸
And although these prices may be high, under no circumstances should you attempt to haggle over them: not only is this insulting to her and the world’s oldest profession, it makes you look like an enormous douchebag. It’s also not very romantic.

And so, to re-cap: you decide what you want,
she
decides what you’re going to get.
⁹⁹

What that ends up being is between you two consenting adults, in the privacy of your own home, Midtown hotel room, or possibly under a bridge. I can’t choose your sexual predilections for you: I can barely keep track of my own. But this is another reason why prostitution is so phenomenal: it affords one the opportunity to experiment sexually without having things be all weird the next morning, when she can’t even bring herself to look at you over the Eggs Woodhouse you’re just trying to enjoy without all this brunch-ruining drama.

French, Greek, GFE, ATM, domination, ass worship, watersports, queening, shrimping, figging, snowballing, role-playing, crib-wetting, double penetration, shocking penetration, reverse cowgirl, reverse cowgirl-on-girl, girl-on-Woodhouse… The list is literally endless, and my point is: Don’t be afraid to try new things. You might just surprise yourself. Although not her.

And while I could go on for literally thousands of pages, space prohibits me from delving into the customs and mores of international prostitution, which obviously differ from country to country. In Thailand for example, it is considered incredibly rude to touch a prostitute on the head. The good news is that, this being Thailand, they don’t need any help from you.

So go get ’em, tiger. And always, always remember:
money in sock, socks on feet.

So, I had this whole big fantastic idea for this section: me and two glamorous cover models would be photographed on my terrace by a famous photographer—over the course of weeks, shooting only at what Terrence Malick and Stanley Kubrick have called the
golden hour
—as we engaged in dozens of various and exotic and amazing sexual positions.

Then—via computers—our glistening, ejaculate-splattered bodies would be turned into tasteful silhouettes, accompanied by the erotic-yet-instructional instructions that I was going to write, Probably would have saved marriages all over the world.

HarperCollins, not surprisingly, balked at the idea:

“We’re not going to pay thousands of dollars to photograph you having sex with women,” said my editrix, jealously.

“You mean
other
women,” I said, admittedly cruelly.

“You’re an asshole.”

Well yeah,
now.
Because since HarperCollins wouldn’t pony up, and actual cover models A) are incredibly expensive, and B) only work for modeling agencies where they slam the phone down in your ear when you tell them their models can expect to be splattered with ejaculate, I was forced to make my own silhouettes. And even though I worked really hard on them, the end result wasn’t quite as erotic-yet-instructional as it would have been if HarperCollins had agreed to my original concept. Which, as we have learned, was to include semen-drenched cover girls.

But whatever: here’s the Archer Sutra.

Yeah thanks, HarperCollins.

I literally spent three hours dicking around with the stupid drawing tool on this word-processing software just to make this one silhouette. But instead of a tasteful rendering of a handsome man introducing a beautiful woman to the subtle mélange of complex emotions and intense physical pleasure which is anal sex, I get a gingerbread centaur shitting out a soccer ball.

I’m bailing.