My date with SF’s now legendary douchebag with a “rape van”.
So, by now many of you have probably seen today’s article on Jezebel, about “Jeffy”, otherwise known as jlaix, Captain_Derp on OkCupid (although he seems to have deleted his account), or Jeffrey Allen. Katie J. M. Baker saw a post on Mission Mission about his now-infamous “rape van,” and, realizing she’d seen it before, published their correspondence. Katie spoke to him and made plans for a date, but ultimately canceled. Well, I went a little further.
EDIT: Ms. Baker didn’t actually go out with him, it was an anonymous source.
Being an adventurous and somewhat awkward internet dater in the SF Bay Area, it turns out that I went on a date with this fine specimen of manhood in December. And yes, it was all that you would expect and more. While leaving the house, I told my roommate that it was either going to be the best date ever, or the worst experience of my single life. It turned out to be both, but also an excellent insight into the psyche of the so-called pickup artist (PUA, in their terminology).
In case you’re not familiar with my personal history, I’ve been a sex worker for about 4 years now. I’ve been a nude model, peepshow dancer, a stripper, a porn performer, a sensual massage provider, dabbled in pro-dommeing ,and now mostly make my living as an independent escort. While working in the strip clubs, a friend introduced me to Neil Strauss and his book The Game, and told me that the techniques described inside actually worked even better on male customers, and would open wallets like nothing else. I devoured the book, and also the Vh1 reality series starring Mystery, another man famous for his love of furry hats and success at leveraging drunk girls’ low self esteem for blowjobs. Turns out, she was right. Drunk, entitled men really respond to “negging” (backhanded compliments made to prey on insecurities), “peacocking” (wearing bright or outlandish clothes to attract attention, something strippers have been excelling at for years), and other PUA tricks.
So when I wound up sitting at a Mission bar next to a self-proclaimed master PUA, I was already armed and ready.
He’d messaged me on OkCupid a week or so before, and we’d been carrying on a very tongue-in-cheek text exchange. He’d texted me video from Vegas of bros dancing at a Deadmau5 show, and I’d made jokes about time travel, his awful outfits, and bacon bikinis. From the tone of our conversation, I knew that I would at least come out of the evening with an excellent story. Finally, the fateful evening arrived. Stuck in traffic, I let him know I would be late, and the warning signs started coming fast and thick. 15 minutes after the scheduled beginning, he was already clearly drinking heavily, and I hadn’t even parked.
I walked into Cha Cha Cha, and sure enough, he’d finished nearly an entire pitcher of sangria. He was also sporting a deep V-neck, a rhinestone “$” pendant, and a slight suggestion of a mullet. Let the games begin, I thought, and I took a seat at the next barstool.
He introduced himself as Jeffy, a writer. I pried a little bit, and he admitted that he also gave seminars to men on how to date women. “Oh, so you’re one of those pickup artists,” I replied, and he confirmed my suspicions. I immediately, without much tact, told him what I thought of his career, and I could see the color start to drain from the broken capillaries in his cheeks. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting a hooker to know big words like “misogyny” and “problematic gamification of human interaction”. And yes, I was completely open about my work with him. I usually am on first dates, because of my philosophy about honesty and being out as a form of activism. If I’m going to be completely honest, though, it’s also because I love the startled expression that my utter nonchalance about my career provokes in most men.
He seemed to think that the fact that we both work closely with male sexuality, insecurity, and romantic prowess made us similar. I saw it as more of a light side/dark side of the Force comparison. I try to make men feel more comfortable around women, around their own bodies, and work on their sexual and romantic skills in a constructive way. He teaches them how to hide their real selves and use acting and costumery to have drunken sex with strangers, and then brag about it in “trip reports” on the internet. They treat women like objectives in a video game, leveling up to “hotter” women, threesomes, and other more challenging situations. I’m pretty sure that being a sex worker qualifies trying to nail me for free as some sort of a boss fight.
Instead of just walking out and leaving him to his wine, I decided to milk the situation a bit, using it as a case study in asshattery. I ordered us some tapas, and went out for a cigarette. He followed me outside, and in between bragging about his many cars (including the now-infamous van), begged drags of my Parliament and started to awkwardly invade my personal space. Uh oh, I thought, and headed back inside. We sat back down, and he started to “open up” about his life, trying to put me off my guard by making jokes about his stature (I have a good 5 inches and 40 pounds on him), his lack of emotional maturity, and his crippling loneliness. So now, I figured, he was going for the pity lay. Suddenly, with absolutely no warning, he reached out and started grabbing at my waist, and roughly tickling my ear. I grabbed his wrist, stared him down, and firmly declared that he was invading my personal space, and had absolutely no right or permission to do so. He looked sheepish and confused, and focused on his now-empty glass of sangria.
A few silent moments went by, and then he announced, “Well, at least you got a free dinner out of it.”
“Yes, that’s true,” I said, reveling in his defeat. He glared at me, growling “I think you should go now.” And I did. I grabbed my jacket, spun off my stool, and fairly strutted out the door.
After unlocking my car and getting inside, I heard my phone vibrate. I pulled it out, and to my surprise, I already had 3 texts waiting, and more were appearing by the second. “Kill yourself nigger.” “You’re pathetic.” “The cognitive dissonance must be killing you,” (absolutely no idea how he’s interpreting this phrase). “The funny thing is, we’re actually perfect for each other,” and a final “You’re pathetic.” Wow.
When I got home, I decided to do a little research. I found his profile on several PUA forums, and both of his books on Amazon. The reviews made for a very entertaining read. I also posted on Twitter to entertain, but also to warn my OkC-using friends about this predator. One of my lady friends even reported him to OkC management for harassment, to my delight. Fucking with misogynists is my idea of a great time. Wanting to see how he’d distort the story for the entertainment of his colleagues, I checked the forums the next morning, hoping for a “trip report”, but alas, he seems to have stopped posting them altogether. Oh well.
For your enjoyment, here is a series of screen grabs of our text conversation, both before and after the date.
