The Blue Riders' Club

By Johnny Blue

The Blue Riders Club is based on a real-life group of philogynists living in modern day Europe who took their name from "Der Blaue Reiter," an expressionist art movement originating in Germany in 1911. The story begins with this posse of hand picked Lotharios being invited to Paris by a wealthy nightclub owner for an all expenses paid mystery rendezvous. As they arrive at the chosen location, each character is introduced to the reader, and it is revealed that this "dirty dozen of debauchery" is being assembled to help write a 21st century "seduction manual" to be presented to each of their sons on the occasion of their 21st birthday.

The book is the product of these brainstorming sessions and is an "Art of War" meets "Kama Sutra" style "bible" of seduction. The manuscript blends the philosophical musings of "Sophie's World," the humor of "Sex and the City," and the sexual candour of "The Bride Stripped Bare." It is a "boys'" own literary rebuttal to the multi-million copy bestseller "The Rules" in a unique mix of the narrative and "how to" genres, loaded with risque humor.

Each chapter is introduced with a transcript recorded during the meetings in a swanky Parisian bar. The dialogues are in the tradition of Plato's "Republic" however the subject matter and quirky verbal exchanges are more reminiscent of Pulp Fiction or Reservoir Dogs. These humorous slices of real life banter between the characters serve as a relevant prelude to the theme of each chapter and make reference to famous artists, writers and scientists throughout history. They also explore the thoughts of great philosophers in relation to sex, and the characters' interpretation of their ideas.

Within each chapter, the "How to" element offers the layman practical strategies for meeting, attracting and bedding women successfully. Included are detailed methods of approaching and seducing women in any situation, the philosophies and psychology of attraction, proven tactics for dating, descriptions of sexual techniques and the makeshift sexual positions, and a comprehensive guide to specific nightclubs around the world. In addition to this eclectic instruction, each "player" delivers witty personalized tips and opinions on chosen topics to cover all the possible scenarios a girl-crazy reader may encounter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 10, 2005
• ISBN: 9781412233705

Johnny Blue

Johnny Blue has owned nightclubs and bars around the world for over 20 years and has drawn upon thousands of hours of observation and experience to help him compile this comprehensive bible of seduction. "The Blue Riders Club" is a sexually risque off-shoot of the original "Blaue Reiter," a group of avaunt-garde artists that started a short-lived movement of free expression in Germany in 1911. In his first literary work, Johnny has transplanted the saplings of their credo and carefully grafted a sprawling canopy of modern day seduction 101. To crystalize his lifelong dream of presenting his only son with a unique seduction manual in time for his 21st birthday, Johnny enlisted the help of twelve of his closest and sleaziest friends, also known as the dirty dozen of debauchery. This esteemed group included several globally known identities that chose to contribute to Johnny's magnum opus under various aliases. At the time of the idea's inception in Mykonos, Greece in 1997, Johnny's grand vision was to have the original 13 manuscripts passed down to each male child of the original 13 "players" and never allow the materials to become commercially available. Due to the mounting pressure from the dirty dozen, especially from one particularly unstable member, Vinnie Vaselini, Johnny finally relented and decided to release the secrets of the Blue Riders Club to the general populous. He hopes the wisdom and humour within its pages can inspire a whole new generation of skirt chasers to "sleaze the day" and successfully master the enigmatic art of seduction. Johnny Blue now works and lives in Australia, and has a 20 year old son, Johnny Jr.

Book preview

The Blue Riders’ Club

-A layman’s guide to seducing women

Johnny Blue

©

Copyright 2005 Johnny Blue

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: a cataloguing record for this book that includes Dewey Decimal Classification and US Library of Congress numbers is available from the Library and Archives of Canada. The complete cataloguing record can be obtained from their online database at:

www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN 1-4120-5252-1

ISBN 9-7814-1223-370-5

TRAFFORD

Offices in Canada, USA, Ireland, UK and Spain

This book was published on-demand in cooperation with Trafford Publishing. On-demand publishing is a unique process and service of making a bookavailable for retail sale to the public taking advantage of on-demand manufacturing and Internet marketing. On-demand publishing includes promotions, retail sales, manufacturing, order fulfilment, accounting and collecting royalties on behalf of the author.

Book sales for North America and international:

Trafford Publishing, 6E—2333 Government St.,

Victoria, BC V8T 4P4 CANADA

phone [phone] (toll-free 1 888 232 4444)

fax [phone]; email to [e-mail]

Book sales in Europe:

Trafford Publishing (UK) Ltd., Enterprise House, Wistaston Road Business Centre,

Wistaston Road, Crewe, Cheshire CW2 7RP UNITED KINGDOM

phone [phone] (local rate 0845 230 9601)

facsimile 01270 254 983; [e-mail]

Order online at:

www.trafford.com/robots/05-0147.html

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Contents

Introduction and Briefing

1. Laying plans

II. Advancing Into Battle

III. Terrain

IV. Strategy and Tactics

V. Philosophies

VI. Psychology

VII. Manoeuvring

VIII. Seven Situations

IX. Analogies of Battle

X. The Spoils of Victory

XI. Rank

XII. Battle Assessment

XIII. Field Intelligence

XIV War Stories

For The Boys:

Junior Cruiser, Senior Cruiser, The Metronome and The Dodge.

Man is the hunter; woman is his game: The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, we hunt them for the beauty of their skins.-Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)-English Poet

Introduction and Briefing

The birth of The Blue Riders’ Club

What’s your poison?

Johnnie Walker Blue on ice, I replied, placing a crisp hundred-euro bill on the bar.

The venue I had chosen was called ‘FLICK’, but the neon sign at the front made you look twice and think of something more erotic. It was only the randomly flickering dot on top of the ‘I’ that exposed the optical illusion. The space itself was elegantly lit and carpeted in ruby red. In the middle of the large room, rows of shiny glasses hung squarely over a fully stocked bar. Its centrepiece was a reflective maze of shelves anchored to a mosaic canopy thrust down from the ceiling. There were comfortable looking suede couches positioned along the walls, and huge antique tables in each corner. It was simple yet classy, and very, very sexy.

It was the ideal setting for our meetings to take place.

Johnny Blue! I turned to see the legendary Frankie Swank approaching me.

Frankie. It’s been a long time, I said, firmly shaking the great man’s hand.

No one’s called me that for years. You created a monster by starting the whole Harry Hacksaw thing. Thanks for that. You look sharp. You always look sharp you smooth bastard.

Thanks Harry. You don’t look too bad yourself… for a hack, he retorted.

I always knew the value of a good name. People always remember something shocking, he added.

Yeah, but Hacksaw? It’s not very subtle. Couldn’t you have christened me Harry Hunter, or something a touch more refined? But you’re the ‘Hacksaw’. It’s just the way it is, he answered, placing his arm around my shoulder.

What’s going on anyway? Why all the mystery? A weekend in Paris, all expenses paid. What’s the deal? Frankie asked.

All in good time Frankie, all in good time, I assured him.

Have a seat at the big mahogany table in the corner. I’ll order you a Vodka Martini and have it brought over. You’re the first one here. Always first in, best dressed hey Frankie?

What are you gonna’ do huh? he answered with a trademark smile.

As he weaved his way through the well-dressed crowd, I heard Dean Martin’s ‘That’s Amore’ playing in the background, and knew that Frankie was already setting up shop and running the show.

Born Francesco Sanchiero (a.k.a. ‘The Stylist’) to peasant farmers in Pisa, Italy, Frankie went from rags to riches when he moved to Chicago and became a self-made textile baron. A smooth operator who had bedded over five hundred women in his long and distinguished shagging career, he was an exponent of the ‘old-school’ approach and was always immaculately dressed due to his penchant for expensive Italian-made suits and shoes. At forty-two years of age, he was tall, dark and debonair, with handsome features and an engaging smile. His finest moment was a threesome with the second and third runners up in a Miss Universe pageant the night before the contest. A ‘man about town’ who always charmed the ladies with witty repartee, Frankie was often found in classy establishments surrounded by a bevy of stunning females.

The room was slowly filling up with glamorous women, and I wondered for a moment whether my invited guests would be able to keep their minds on the task I was about to present them. As I leaned on the cherry-varnished bar and sipped my whisky, I pondered whether even I would be able to fully concentrate on matters at hand.

Cigarette Harry?

Jimmy… Sammy… Gary… How you all doin’? I exclaimed with relief. My three New York ‘big-guns’ had arrived, and I would be relying heavily on this experienced threesome to bring my idea to fruition.

We’re great Harry. What’s this all about? I hear even ‘Junior’ Cruiser’s coming, Jimmy said.

Yeah, Junior will be making a special guest appearance between dates. Great to see you guys. Frankie Swank’s here too. Take a seat at the table and all will be revealed.

Big mysteries hey Harry? Sammy probed.

Big mysteries…Jimmy, you still drinking scotch rocks? …Glen something isn’t it?

Thanks Harry. Glenmorangie…18 year single malt, Jimmy answered proudly.

Of course! Southern and coke for Sammy…and straight Bourbon no ice for Gary?

You never forget Harry, noted Sammy with a wry grin.

The devil is in the detail. Sit down. The drinks will be there soon, I assured them, motioning towards the smoke plumed corner of the room.

As the trio moved towards the table, I noticed they were already starting to work some tight angles with a few of the more buxom patrons. Jimmy was looking to apply ‘the clamp’ on the first unsuspecting female target he could muster, while his two well-drilled accomplices were at their genial best, introducing themselves to a discerning selection of local talent. Sammy had already paid off the DJ, and the dulcet tones of Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York’ could be heard drifting through the excited crowd. As I took a drag of my cigarette, I reflected on the backgrounds of the inseparable ‘three musketeers’.

Jimmy Jacuzzi (a.k.a. ‘The Strategist’) used psychological mind-games and calculated tactics against women to gradually break down their defences and seduce them. He was a professional poker player in his youth, and it was during this ‘high-roller’ phase that he began studying the intricacies of human psychology and body language that would later shape his philosophy on seduction. He was now thirty-four years of age and owned a spa construction business, using it as a front to test the waters with his large, ‘strictly-female’ client list. With his brain being a hot-bed of shagging activity, he had a tendency to over-analyse the mechanics of seduction, but he had also masterminded some of the most widely used sleazing manoeuvres in the business, including ‘the clamp’, ‘the bump’ and the ‘bump/clamp combo’. He had seduced more than one hundred and fifty women in his self-styled office-spa and his finest moment was pumping a swimwear model underwater in a display pool at the ‘Molto Azzuro’ spa and pool trade show in Venice, Italy. His motto was: I think, therefore I shag.

Sammy Slapperelli (a.k.a. ‘Slippery Sam’) was a heavy-duty sleazebag from the Bronx who unashamedly used every trick in the book to get a shag. He misspent most of his youth hanging around pool halls, and found his niche slapping girls’ arses while they played their shots at the tables. Sporting a three-day growth that a thirty year-old man would have been proud of, he first gained entry into a nightclub at the tender age of twelve. As a cheeky thirteen year-old junior arse grabber, he began to patrol the local dance floors with a firm hand, eventually ‘breaking his cherry’ in the summer of his fourteenth year. By the time he turned fifteen he was banging women twice his age two at a time, and teaching them a thing or two in the process. He was now a seedy strip-club owner whose weather-beaten look could generously be described as ‘tough-guy’ handsome. This self-proclaimed ‘Doctor of Sleaze’ knew all the angles, and even practiced lines and routines in front of the mirror and in his sleep. He was prone to exaggeration on occasion, and was often accused of adding ‘salsa’, or sauce, to his womanising escapades. He was twenty-eight years old and had over two hundred and fifty conquests to his credit, with a standout effort of banging his best friend’s mum at fourteen. His famous quote was: I bang, therefore I am.

Gary Gazebo was a shagging shyster who used deception and ‘shady’ methods to get the girls. Even though his modus operandi was somewhat questionable, his roguish charm always kept him in the bedroom and out of trouble. He was brought up in a poor Jewish family in Queens, New York, and experienced frequent brushes with local law enforcement agencies in his youth. Married at seventeen. and divorced at seventeen, he was a part-time landscaper specializing in backyard garden structures, and could often be found tempting lonely housewives with ‘back-door’ deals over glasses of cold lemonade. He was twenty-nine years of age with seven sons he knew of, and had conned more than seventy-five women into having sex with him, his most memorable exploit being a threesome with the Rosella twins between rows of tomato plants in a suburban veggie patch. His most famous saying was Never let the truth get in the way of a good shag.

Penny for your thoughts. I turned towards the pretty voice and was instantly disarmed by a smiling Olympic gene pool of sex.

Hello Penny, I joked, hoping to elicit a friendly response.

Touché, she quipped, acknowledging my quick reply. The poor kitten had no idea who she was dealing with.

Are you the one everybody in this place is talking about? Care to let a pretty lady in on your little secret? she enquired.

See a penny, pick it up, and all day you’ll have good. I started.

What? she dared. As I was about to suggest an appropriate bedroom gymnastics itinerary for the next three hours, I felt a tap on my shoulder and spun around to see a leather-clad Johnny Metronome, smiling like a schoolboy after his first fuck.

Excuse me Penny, another friend of mine has arrived…I hope we can chat again later, I said, attempting to conceal my newly acquired third leg.

Johnny, my man. Johnny Smiles. How are you? You look like you’ve JBF’D, I said.

His laconic response was delivered with a smile, and in typical rock-star style.

Harry baby. Good to see ya man. Good. It’s all good baby.. Is the gang here? This place is a pussy factory. I have JBF’D but I’m still so fucking horny!

Patience, Johnny boy. You never did understand the meaning of patience did you?

Hell no! Life’s too short, he retorted with a confident wink and trademark smile.

Ah, Johnny boy. Big, bad Johnny. Glad you made it. Take a seat with the others, have a bourbon and coke, and try not to get laid on the way to the table.

Can’t promise anything Harry, but I’ll give it a shot, he joked, swaggering towards the nearest group of females like a union sanctioned cleavage inspector.

Johnny Metronome (a.k.a. ‘The Metronome’) was a ruthless Lothario famous for his ability to cut to the chase and ‘accelerate’ the shagging process. He descended from the Metropolis family of Greek bouzouki players based in Athens, and after losing his virginity to one of his father’s groupies at age eleven he changed his name by deed poll. He refused to partake in orthodox pick-up techniques and steadfastly adhered to his own speed-dating doctrine that continued to bring him outstanding success. He was now thirty-seven and the lead singer of a band, and had managed to nurture his own fresh batch of groupies. He held the record for the shortest time taken to shag a woman after an initial meeting, being 6.9 seconds from first eye contact to actual penetration, and has claimed he once had sex with eleven women in one twenty-four hour pump-fest. This consistent performer was a master of rhythm and timing and could ‘up the tempo’ to synchronize with his partner’s crescendo when required. He always carried a copy of the Kama Sutra and had earned a reputation as a bona-fide pussy technician by mastering over one hundred and fifty sexual positions. Having had sex with well over a thousand women, his best effort was a five-some with an entire girlie band in a private jet over the skies of Norway, a result of which he earned the nickname, ‘Johnny Smiles’. His simple yet timeless motto was: Sleaze the day.

I peered through the bustling crowd toward the table hoping not to witness a full on public orgy, and was relieved to see part of the old gang chatting away happily. I had hoped the mystery surrounding this ‘Rendezvous in Paris’ would tempt everyone invited, and noted that there were still eight empty seats. One for me left seven invitees yet to come. As I surveyed the well-appointed surrounds, I sensed the first shift in the room’s atmosphere. The grand array of intricately patterned windows now siphoned light out instead of in, and the plush red carpet was barely discernable, obscured by hundreds of excited revellers eager to find out what the evening held in store for them.

Harry?

Hughie. You poor bastard. How you going? I asked, anticipating his well-worn response.

Oh, you know Harry, my run of bad luck just keeps getting worse.

As he started into his spiel on how he just missed out on this, and was unlucky not to win that, I had to interrupt him and implore him to take a seat. As unfortunate as his plight was, he was an integral part of my master plan, and had to be included.

Go and sit down Hughie, I’ll have a glass of milk sent over for you.

I think I am going to meet someone special tonight Harry. I can really feel it, he claimed.

No worries Hughie, just have a seat with the others, I pleaded again.

Poor Bastard, I thought to myself, as I pondered his sad history.

His name said it all. ‘Hard Luck’ Hughie, the twenty-five year-old perennial loser from Mt Disappointment, Australia, always seemed to botch up his attempts at picking up women, and it remained a mystery how his parents even managed to conceive him. He was always ‘between head-jobs’ and seemed to continually back the fourth placegetter at the trots. With a wealth of experience on what not to do, he was a great source of information regarding pick-up pitfalls and bad moves that would send anyone packing. Hughie had been hit repetitively with the ugly stick and suffered from a severe case of bad-breath. He had become a baldy at a very young age and hung on by a thread by persisting with the dreaded ‘comb-over’. He had poor personal grooming and no tact, and topped things off with an appalling lack of timing. An example of this was when he shook hands, always clasping too early and over-pumping, resulting in a ‘fish fingered late release thick-shake’. He was a regular at the brothels, and even had trouble getting sex there on occasion. He had managed to stumble his way through one hundred and fifty soft-cock shags, none longer than two minutes in duration, and all paid for, with his greatest moment being a threesome with two prostitutes that was on special for $199. His timeless quote was, I could have shagged her. I still don’t know your name.

I heard that alluring voice again and turned to see ‘Penny’ giving me all the classic signals.

And I still don’t know yours, I replied wistfully.

Rose.

Aahh!…By any other name would smell as sweet, I countered. As I leaned in to steal a few seconds of her flavour, I sensed there was enough background noise to play the cunning linguist game without the risk of getting caught.

Pleasure to eat you Rose, I continued. I’m Johnny, but my friends call me Harry. I’ve never come across a face as beautiful as yours. I see a penis in that smile.

A what? she laughed.

Happiness. You have a beautiful smile.

Oh…Why thank you sir. You’re very kind. I was wondering how that little poem of yours finishes? she enquired, twirling her long, ringleted hair. The one about picking up a penny, she added.

See a penny, pick it up, and all day you’ll have good luck, I answered playfully.

She paused and moved in a little closer. I swore I could feel her nipple poking into my chest.

Are you feeling lucky, Harry? The alarm bells started ringing and it was game on. I composed myself, being sure not to reveal the mind-blowing effect she was having on me.

Aah…well… Now that the Penny’s dropped, my luck might be heading in a nude erection. What happens if I pick up a rose, Rose? You’ll have to come up with a new ending now. Are you up for it? I asked cheekily.

You certainly like to push the envelope of innuendo, don’t you Harry?

What? . I’m not sure what you mean. That sort of thing is .well. blow me!

"Just as I thought! Beneath you. Don’t you mean that sort of thing is beneath you?

Of course. It’s all in you’re mine, I mouthed carefully.

She started ‘girl gliding’ into the crowd before glancing back and giving me a flirtatious look that instantly sent goose bumps racing through my skin.

Hack!

I turned to see another arrival. It was my old mate Ronnie Pepper.

Ronnie, you old master. How they hanging? I asked.

Long and low, old son. Long and low. Look who else I brought, he said as he dragged over another rookie, the great Benny Ballsac.

Benny boy. How are you buddy? I shouted, applying a playful headlock.

Great, but careful of my neck, I’ve just got out of traction, he growled through my sleeve.

Yeah right Benny. Traction hey? We all know about you and your attractions, joked Ronnie.

Good on you boys. Have a seat with the others. Ronnie, your usual glass of red? I asked.

Thanks Harry, he replied.

Benny, tequila shot coming right up. I’ll send the drinks over, I told them.

Harry, what’s the deal? Benny asked. Why all the secrecy? You’ll see, I answered coyly, as the memories came flooding back.

Ronnie Pepper (a.k.a. ‘The Shaker’) was a brilliant orator and skilled motivator. He hailed from a highly academic family, his father being a prominent gynaecologist and his mother a sex-education lecturer. He hadn’t banked too many shags of his own in his career, but had overseen thousands of sessions by observing threesomes, setting up sociological experiments, and watching porn. Always happy to throw in his two cents worth to spice up your thought processes, this Zen master of the vicarious shag was greatly respected among his peers as a pussy-hunting aficionado. He was twenty-six years of age, resided in Sydney, Australia, and had just over thirty shags to his credit. His finest moment was convincing a sociology student to demonstrate forty-seven sexual positions on him for ‘research purposes’ while helping her complete an honours thesis. His enduring motto was: I like to watch.

Benny ‘Big Toes’ Ballsac resided in Prague, Czech Republic, and was a ballsy character born with two extra big toes where his little toes should have been. A distant cousin of legendary Czech stuntman Barry ‘Bunsen-Burner’ Ballsac, and heir to the Ballsac Pharmaceutical empire, Benny was destined for a life of thrills, spills and taking pills. After discovering that his surplus big toes provided him with a supreme sense of balance, Benny spent most of his childhood jumping over friends on his ‘hotted-up’ BMX. This bravery continued into his teens, when he realised he had a knack for pulling off low percentage sleazing manoeuvres such as the ‘straight pash’ and ‘forced pash’, and he consequently turned his attention to jumping pussy instead. As a result of his never say die approach to sleazing, most of the bones in his body had been broken by jealous boyfriends and furious husbands, and he had even been inducted into to the shagger’s ‘Hall of Fame’ by seducing a large-busted nurse while he was heavily sedated in traction. He was nineteen years of age and had accumulated nineteen adventurous shags, and didn’t believe in mottos, preferring to let his actions speak for themselves.

The room was becoming electric, and I sensed that I was on the verge of something very special. I had met each of these invited ‘players’ over the years at the various bars I either owned or had a share in. I had lived in several countries while running these establishments, including the US, England, Australia, Greece, and the Czech Republic, and had watched each ‘Casanova’ in action on many occasions. The friendships became stronger after spending a month holidaying together in Mykonos, Greece, four years earlier. It was soon after this remarkable experience that I had first sown the seeds of the idea that would eventually re-unite them.

I lit another cigarette and took a swig of my third Johnny Walker Blue. It tasted even better with half-melted ice, the cool sting of the malt piercing my throat like corrupted honey. The lights were now dimmed and the pyramid of coloured bottles on the mirrored bar had kindled a shimmering kaleidoscope of booze. It was through this surreal reflection that I saw the last three men arrive. As I watched them work the traffic like pro’s, I felt a weight in my breast pocket and sensed the remnants of a fragrance I couldn’t quite place. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a key with the number ‘487’ and ‘Paris Hilton’ embossed into the wooden key ring. I also found a neatly folded piece of paper. I opened it to see a message written with exquisite penmanship.

To ‘Dirty’ Harry. Make my day. Rose I realised that she must have slipped it in without me noticing.. Her nipple my arse! The seducer was being seduced. How I loved being a virile man in love with women.

Hey, Hacksaw!

Junior. Cabana boy. Vinnie. Great to see you guys, I said.

Some prick already spilt my drink all over my arm, Vinnie exploded, gesturing towards the stains on his shirt. This shirt cost me fifty bucks. I’m gonna cut him up.

I tried to calm him down. Vinnie, take it easy. I’ll buy you another drink.

And buy me a baseball bat to smack that dickhead, he yelled aggressively, spraying fountains of trademark ‘Vinspit’ through the air.

"I’ll get you