Telling Girls You Were Once Engaged

If you are a man such as myself with a long and storied relationship history, it will start to worry new girls that you meet why you have decided to remain “single”, i.e. unmarried. You see, a former marriage, no matter how spectacular its failing, is a mark of success on a man; it says to a prospective mate he was able at one time to attract a woman the traditional way and bind her in the facsimile of a long term commitment. This is another one of those intractable and intrinsic gender double standards that whiners will just have to learn to accept with dignity — divorced men suffer less of a blow to their dating market value than do divorced women. The same is true of divorced men with kids, or single dads; they do not suffer nearly the same market value penalty that single moms do.

It all comes down to the biologically induced disparity in how men and women respond to the phenomenon of preselection. Men, being nearly 100% visually oriented in their attractions to women, couldn’t care less what kind of man is on her arm, or what kind of men used to be on her arm. They see, they like. Simple equation. All they care about is that she is unencumbered (or unskewered) by dicks present, and to a lesser extent, by dicks past. Women, on the other hand, rely heavily on preselection (when it is available as a tool to judge mate quality) in their attractions to men. They see he is liked, they like.

And so it goes with divorcées. Divorced men can see a boost in their attractiveness to women (as long as they avoid bringing up the ex-wife in reverent tones during pickups), while divorced women see no boost, or even a negative hit, in their attractiveness to men. Consequently, my advice to divorced men is to mention your divorcée status early in a conversation. My advice for divorced women would be just the opposite — refrain from bringing it up, and if he asks, lie. This double standard is so entrenched that even *married* men will see an increase in their pickup success.

This is why I have discovered that a man telling girls he was once engaged works to stimulate their curiosity. And female curiosity is the catalyst that speeds the chemical reaction leading to tingles. Why engaged? Because former finacée sounds sexier than ex-wife. It is pregnant with romantic and tragic possibility. She sees this man, once engaged but no longer, and her mind reels with fantasy of what went wrong. Was it irreconcilable differences? Did he cheat on her? Did she move away? Did he make demands she couldn’t meet? Did she die in a horrible car accident? Was there a vast cultural gulf? Did her family sabotage their love? What did she look like?

Don’t worry if you were never engaged. Lie. It is the sort of lie that is nearly impossible to detect, or accidentally expose. And it is the sort of lie women crave from men, and would not disrupt with arid investigative pursuit. Your job, as a man with a keen grasp of female psychology, is to lie and let her overworked hamster fill in the missing narrative. The best way to do this is to say you were once engaged to a French girl, for American women bristle from the imagined competitive threat of French girls. (When American women ask me who my favorite actresses are, I always mention Marion Cotillard and Audrey Tautou. Then I watch with satisfaction their faces flash a hint of sexually lubricative insecurity.)

HER: Were you always single?

THE DEVIL WHO REMAKES U IN HIS IMAGE: No, I was once engaged.

HER: Really!

THE DEVIL WHO REMAKES U IN HIS IMAGE: Yes. [Turn away, look pensively at the horizon] She was a French girl. We were in love.

HER: What happened?

THE DEVIL WHO REMAKES U IN HIS IMAGE: It’s complicated.

Read Full Post »

A Patriotic Independence Day Story

It was early evening and the sun still blazed on the horizon, casting shards of soft yellow light across faces and dewy beer pints. Sitting on the bar stools to my right were two white women. I could tell they were friends by their isolationist banter. I looked over and visually judged them; both were in their late 20s or early 30s, frumpily dressed, and of average attractiveness. Not hard on the eyes, but not boner inspiring, either. They didn’t exercise with weights; the first betrayals of droop were beginning to intrude. They looked like typical city yuppies, likely SWPL to the bone. One smiled invitingly at me. I decided neither one was good-looking enough to warrant an effort to hit on them, so I smiled back perfunctorily and returned to my dinner. (Note to Satoshi Kanazawa at ‘Psychology Today’: this is what is known as male mating choice.)

By the by, two men approached the women seated to my right in what looked like an obvious pickup attempt. There was no other reason for them to have struck up a conversation with the ladies; where the women were sitting was out of the way of the main patron thoroughfare, so a cold approach meant, quite accurately, “I have designs to fuck you for the least amount of resource investment and on the shortest timetable possible”. The men ably paired off with the women, (a smoothly executed maneuver that suggested they had discussed beforehand which of the two women appealed to whom), and a dry four-way commenced.

Because of my proximity to their group, I couldn’t help but overhear the ensuing rapid fire chit chat. The men sounded like they had some rudimentary understanding of game, or at least of how to be cool enough not to trigger a woman’s anti-dork alert system. They were able to stay in set for about ten minutes before the whole thing dissolved in a debris heap of… well, judge for yourself. What follows is the critical excerpt of their conversation.

MAN 1: You guys watching the World Cup? That Ghana game was incredible.

WOMAN 1: The one where they played Uruguay?

MAN 1: Yeah, Ghana was robbed of a goal. It’s too bad we didn’t beat Ghana. The US had a pretty good team. I think we could have taken Uruguay.

WOMAN 2: I wouldn’t have rooted for America.

MAN 1: What do you mean? You wouldn’t have rooted for America against Uruguay? [smiling crookedly, a pained lifeline to a sucker punched rapport in its infancy] That’s weird. [looking at his buddy, then back at the girl] Are you anti-American?

WOMAN 2: Anti-americaaaaaan??! [looking at her girl buddy, open-mouthed, then back at the guy] Haha, I just think America isn’t as good at soccer. They don’t really deserve to win.

MAN 2: You always root for the home team, even if they suck.

WOMAN 2: I don’t. Ghana and Uruguay are real soccer countries. They have so much more tradition. I would have totally rooted for them against America.

MAN 2: That’s anti-American!

WOMAN 2: Well, whatever, you can call it what you like. We don’t have to win everything, you know.

Tempers flared, then subsided as the men worked diligently to keep the pretense of a seduction going. The conversation fizzled to a snippy end and the men left for another bar. The women giggled as they recounted the awkwardness of the interaction, placing the blame for the failed seduction entirely on the men, as is the wont of the unaccountable and unreflective gender.

I would not claim the men performed with verve. Their game — if you could call it that — was haphazard, verging on slapstick. They let their anger bubble to the surface, and allowed their alpha prerogative to remain calm under pressure accede to the juggernaut of their hothead emotions. As noxious as the women were, calling them out on their anti-Americanism would only have served to confirm their self-satisfied pseudomorality of nation-state transcendence. If it was pussy the men wanted, a bristle-backed argumentative posture is not the way to get it. If, however, they merely wanted the exquisite sadistic pleasure of getting under the women’s skins, there are better ways than raw effrontery to accomplish that.

Allow me to demonstrate. Here is how the conversation would have transpired if I was at the helm and had it in mind to cruelly twist the shiv in their stunted SWPL souls.

THE DEVIL U LUV: You guys watching the World Cup? That Ghana game was incredible.

WOMAN 1: The one where they played Uruguay?

THE DEVIL U LUV: Yeah, Ghana was robbed of a goal. It’s too bad we didn’t beat Ghana. The US had a pretty good team. I think we could have taken Uruguay.

WOMAN 2: I wouldn’t have rooted for America.

THE DEVIL U LUV: Interesting. So you wouldn’t have rooted for America against Uruguay?

WOMAN 2: I just think America isn’t as good at soccer. They don’t really deserve to win.

THE DEVIL U LUV: [totally straight face] Hm, you know, I agree. I like the way you guys think for yourselves. Not many people are cool enough to root for a foreign country.

WOMAN 2: I suppose…

THE DEVIL U LUV: It’s important to be cool, wouldn’t you agree?

WOMAN 2: [starting to feel the burn] I guess… are you mocking us?

THE DEVIL U LUV: Not at all. I like you guys. Stay cool. [exit, stage sweet victory]

******

On this 4th of July, We the post-Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 People should spend a moment to reflect on the tenuous grasp the inheritors of the great American tradition have to their homeland. When you wave your sparklers with your kids this holiday weekend, cast a wary eye at your neighbor. A disease has metastasized in huge swaths of the American population and threatens to suffocate the grandiose and noble idea that ironically nourishes their trite impudence. The host which ennobles has become the rotting carcass upon which to feed. Gnawing and chewing parasites dripping venom and toxic bile have replaced the immune boosting white blood cells and defiantly proud armies of red blooded corpuscles of a body politic once happy, grateful, and giddy to be alive. And not just any sort of alive; the kind of exalted living that comes from knowing your good fortune to have been born in a prosperous country culturally superior to so many alternatives. Yes, superior. The very word sends shudders down the spines of the mincing globocrats and mewling equalist butterfucks.

A vector of patricidal vengeance, a boiling plume of acrid anti-native stock spite, travels up and down our coasts, from Miami to Boston, LA to Seattle, in our newsrooms, our boardrooms, our schools, and our social gathering places, carrying a message of spastic hate for America, her founding ideals, and the historically great figures who have traveled her hallowed corridors. Pockets of internal organs are infected, Chicago and Austin. These are not traitors in action… mostly… but their souls are traitorous in configuration. Their feelings are the knee-jerk bleats of a bastard people at growing unease with the country they are required by law to call home. A nation of latchkey kids — stupid in their ahistorical ignorance and frightened of the breaking surf of censored knowledge about to crash on their heads — has been in open revolt against its beneficent parent for generations now, and the opiate of distracting technoporn and glam mags can only hold off the coming reckoning for so long. They live for the comforting swaddle of the trend, and right now every trend is pointing in the direction of dialectic anti-patriotism.

In reaction, hordes of indignant evangelist armies in middlemarch shout their loyalty from rooftops. But theirs is the rearguard wail of a dumbfounded, shellshocked bit player forced by circumstance and disposition to play by the stronger enemies’ rules. It is the enemies’ first principles they must attack and subvert, but servility and cowardice prevent them from unleashing the hell they must if victory is to be total. They scream guns and glory for wars they know deep in their hearts serve no true American interest. They laugh jovially at diversity seminars that they then attend dutifully, mouths shut, for they have families to feed. They stupidly stand four square behind leaders who have checkmarked the correct ideological box despite all evidence to the contrary putting the lie to those leaders’ presupposed beliefs. They retreat to a chapel ghetto as the gleaming city around them shatters to the ground, confident that the Word and the Faith will see them through. They fight incoherent losing battles with phantom threats while ignoring or resignedly acquiescing to the real threats in their midst. They toe the line of rebellion, then quickly scuttle back under a counterstrike of nerve-rattling platitudes and orchestrated insults.

Soon… sooner than you think… the status-fueled citizen hate will yield to indifference, and exhausted resignation, if it hasn’t already. (We Americans do things on a sped-up time schedule.) And then the final days of America will descend, a tattered curtain closing on a dream corrupted by the nightmare of human nature and the willful blindness to the motivations of our enemies, internal and external. There is no stopping it now; it must play out. The smart man, making his way through this current decaying epoch, has but one choice before him — one self-interested choice — and that is the path of hedonism.

Many eons from now, when anthropologists are picking through the remains of the American Empire and piecing together a narrative for why things went so horribly wrong, may they come upon this blog post as an answer to their questions. For I truly believe that nothing else than that small snippet of a conversation on a rooftop bar in an American city circa 2010 between two typical youngish men and two typical youngish women better illuminates the cause of America’s decline and the depravity of her people who are the nominal heirs to Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin.

When the World Cup comes around again, I will be rooting for the soccer-indifferent USA to crush the smaller soccer-fanatic countries. And I won’t apologize for my loyalties, even as I laugh at soccer for being the girly, flop-happy sport it is.

Read Full Post »

Canceling Dates

Here’s a good rule of thumb: Whenever a woman cancels a date and doesn’t offer an alternative time, she is rejecting you.

It doesn’t matter if the excuse she gives sounds plausible, or you have proof that she really can’t make the date due to other obligations. If she doesn’t offer a make-up date, she’s not interested enough to see you again. You *could* press the matter, but you’d be better off forgetting her and sticking with girls who demonstrate more enthusiasm to spend time with you.

In my experience, almost every girl who has cancelled a date for a presumably legitimate reason, has offered another time to meet if she already had it in her heart that she wanted to fuck me. Knowing this, it’s tactically savvy to refrain from counter-offering a make-up date until she has had a chance to make her counter offer. So when a girl cancels on you, give her space to offer another date and time; don’t rush to suggest an alternative meeting time. Like trial texting, this is a great way to gauge a woman’s emotional investment in you, and to consequently avoid dropping too much money and time on girls who are on the fence about their feelings for you.

Read Full Post »

Chinese Women Toughest Girls To Game?

This may be the quote of the year:

The hard-boiled bachelorette, Ma Nuo, has gone on to become one of China’s most recognizable bai jin nu [golddigger]. Marry for love? Fat chance, said the material girl: “I would rather cry in a BMW than smile on the back of my boyfriend’s bicycle.”

That’s from an article about the rank materialism of Chinese women. Hmm, now what does that quote remind one of? Oh yeah:

Maxim #101: For most women, five minutes of alpha is worth five years of beta.

You go, future time oriented girl! Now, normally, only the hottest chinagirls are gonna have a realistic shot at crying in a rich man’s BMW. Most of them will have to settle for getting pumped and dumped, sans engagement ring, in the beemer’s back seat. But these are not normal times in the middle kingdom. For one, their sexual market is all kinds of dysfunctional; armies of single men prowl for whatever scraps of single women they can sniff out. With a ratio that bad, it’s no wonder men have to advertise flat ownership (15 square feet!) before some chinese version of a dumpy jelly splingerette casting call reject deems him worthy of a peck on the cheek. We’ve come a long way since foot binding, baby.

The Chinese, being the massively Special K-selected race that they are, are likely the world’s preeminent, badassiest provider betas. This is the land of niceguy hugs, excruciatingly long courtships, the zippered non-fling, and video game substituting for… well, for just about everything. You drop your typical soybrained China dude in America and he is gonna get chewed up and wetly expectorated by our badboy loving women, house or no house. Which system is better? Tough call. Personally, as a fan of love and being human, I’d wither in an environment where chicks were so calculatingly miss roboto about dating and all that slimy emotional stuff that lubes the whole process. On the chubside, you can straight buy your way into some fairly loyal, and non-obese!, vertically epicanthic vaj. No game needed. Of course, the price of entry is steep, and climbing like a stripper reaching for a hundred windexed to the top of the pole.

The Sino-sordid spectacle reminds me of stuff I read from somewhere about how the English evolved mucho smarts and were able to kickstart the industrial revolution, and eventually, America. Turns out they practiced good old fashioned eugenics, the way nature intended — all the smarties and upper classmen had way more kids than the poor and smelly, who were left to die in the streets very uncompassionately, and after many generations of that, a new people was born. (Any current reversal of the process is a figment of your imagination. Ow, my balls!) But you religious bleeding hearts can sleep easy; God watched over the unfolding dirty Darwinian events with an eye toward a future kinder, gentler humanity, so you know it had His heavenly stamp of approval. Back to the point: I see the same thing happening now in China.

I’d say Chinese men need an infusion of game, stat, but they’re probably constitutionally incapable of understanding the concepts, let alone applying them. These Chinese chicks may be megamaterialistic, but I’m nigh certain that you drop a nuclear neg on a moonfaced gaggle of them and suddenly that legalistic mental mate checklist (house? car? sinecure with the Party? Now we talk long time.) evaporates like so much empty bluster. Why do I think this? Because I’d bet coin of the realm that in a country of 500 million men, not more than three girls have been negged, and I’m counting the whores. The conceptual reality of Chinese men couldn’t be further from the world of pickup.

Hey, if a lonely sex-starved Chinese man can’t get a nibble, he could always pull a van der sloot. That’s guaranteed to get him an avalanche of marriage proposals. And it’s a lot cheaper than paying for a house 22 times the cost of the median Chinese annual salary. But seriously, let’s hope this banal, arid materialistic quid pro ho doesn’t infect the rest of the world. Last thing America needs is another layer of absurd entitlement on top of the noxious layers currently defeminizing our women. Remember, every time you buy a fat girl a drink, or a house, Satan smites a beta.

Read Full Post »

Staying One Step Ahead Of Suspicious Women

Match.com has an article called ‘Are You Dating A Player?‘ which warns women away from players by identifying some telltale signs of the inveterate philanderer (i.e., the man most attractive to women).

He’s bold. For the player, the pickup is a game. He doesn’t approach women with the same nerves or awkwardness of a normal guy. He’ll walk up confidently, with a big smile and great eye contact. His manner will be smooth and put-together. This doesn’t mean you should look for the opposite — a stuttering wreck — but be wary of a guy who acts completely bulletproof. A little anxiety is natural.

This is a good point. Overqualification is a bigger problem than most men realize, and can kill a pickup in its infancy. Advanced players understand that demonstrating a hint of vulnerability is integral to the seduction process, particularly when the target is insecure about her looks. It’s OK to be cool as a cucumber when approaching 9s and 10s (or even 8s if you look like the type of guy who shouldn’t be dating 8s), but for any other woman, showing a flash of nervousness while still maintaining state control can go a long way toward endearing you to her. I wouldn’t show nervousness in your body language, though. Confident body language is too important to pressing women’s attraction buttons to risk mucking up. Instead, look down after you introduce yourself and say something like “I can’t believe I’m doing this”. All it takes is a subtle gesture to communicate a touch of anxiety. The uglier the girl is, the more you’ll have to pretend to be a marble-mouthed nervous wreck. But then, why are you hitting on ugly girls?

He declares his feelings right away. Players employ a “fast come-on,” according to Dr. Kalish, making sweeping statements of affection (e.g., “You’re the most perfect woman I’ve ever met”) from the word go. These declarations can feel very welcome, especially if you’ve been in a string of relationships that lacked such intimacy. Just remember that true closeness takes time, and it’s normal for a guy to be more guarded about his emotions.

This is wrong. *Phony* players who imagine they are Don Juan of the downtown declare their feelings of love right away. Actual players who know the score do no such thing. They know that women crave the challenge of winning a man’s affection. Direct game like this can work, but generally only in limited contexts, such as with women who aren’t especially hot. And players who advocate direct game usually revert to indirect game soon after the opener.

He always plans romantic dates. Dating for the player is kind of a performance art. And he’s going to be good at it. “He won’t just bring a box of chocolates,” Dr. Kalish warns. “He’ll take you to a state fair and offer to share cotton candy.” Nice guys can be romantic, too, but life with them won’t always feel like a Robert Pattinson movie. Nonstop rooftop picnics and weekends at the cottage could be too much.

I wouldn’t worry about this. Women universally love men who take them on creative, inspired dates. (NOTE: Creative != expensive.) But there is such a thing as overkill. I wouldn’t put much date effort into a chick I haven’t banged yet. If you want to be on the safe side, save your creative, romantic dates until after you’ve banged her.

He has lots of acquaintances, no close friends. The player tends to be a lone wolf. That doesn’t mean he lacks for golfing buddies. The same way he charms women, he can charm lots of people in his life. The key is that, in friendship as in romance, his affections run broad but not deep. If solid pals are hard to come by with this guy, consider yourself warned.

She’s not going to find out about the structure of your friendships until well after you’ve fucked her, so this supposed red flag should be of zero concern to you. I don’t even think this is true. I know ladies’ men who have very deep friendships, with both men and women.

He’s a thrill-seeker. A guy who spends his spare time looking for a rush — fast driving, bungee jumping, kite-boarding, heli-skiing — should give you pause. This type, says Dr. Kalish, craves the excitement that comes from conquering a difficult challenge, and that goes for his relationship goals as well. Once he’s “conquered” you, your allure may quickly fade.

Yeah, I suppose this is a tipoff. If you’re really worried about pinging a girl’s play-dar, then just cut back on the skydiving, champ.

***

The second half of the article describes five signs that the man she is dating is a niceguy. Thus, you should pay attention to this advice if you want to do nothing but masturbate for the rest of your life.

He’s goofy. The sincere suitor is not suave. He doesn’t always say the right thing.

Vulnerability game. Just don’t overdo the goofiness. The niceguy is effortlessly goofy because his lack of confidence gets the better of him. This is not what women want. What they do want is an effortlessly suave man who is occasionally goofy. This will make him seem attainable without sacrificing his raw sex appeal.

He remembers personal details and events. It’s the most basic way to show someone you care — by learning about his or her life and interests.

Awful advice for any man. Women don’t want you to remember personal details about them; at least, not until it matters, like when she’s hinting at marriage and she wants to see signs of commitment from you. Caring carebears do not get laid. Careless assholes do.

He treats his mama right. Generally speaking, a loving family begets a loving person, and the opposite is also true.

Don’t Lotharios have a reputation for being mammas’ boys? Regardless, this is a stupid sign to look for. Men with even half a brain are not going to introduce girls they haven’t had sex with yet to their mothers. If you’re not a complete feeb, she’ll never know what your relationship with your mother is like until well after many sessions of intimacy have transpired.

He can mingle. “The sincere guy doesn’t mind being in a room with people who are more accomplished than he is,” Dr. Kalish says.

Wrong. Players are almost universally better minglers than are niceguys. Niceguys may be good listeners, sure, but that’s because they’re too boring to contribute to the conversation.

He says, “I love you.” As fawning as a player’s affections are, there’s still something sacred about the L-bomb. Kalish found that insincere men would say, “I want to grow old with you,” or “I want to have children with you,” but “I love you” remained somehow off limits. A guy who says those three magic words may very well mean them.

I see the problem here. The author is conflating “insincere men” with “players”. The two are not the same. A player can easily fall head over heels in love with a woman, and declare it from the rooftops. He just happens to do this with a lot of women, instead of just one.

Read Full Post »

Breaking The Seal

I had two conversations going on. One with my date (first date) sitting next to me and one in my head.

“They call this game the beautiful sport. Personally, I think bowling should have that title. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t call bowling a sport.” She smirks.

“Sure it is. Hand eye coordination. Groupies. It qualifies.”

I lay my hand on her forearm. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t return my touch with one of her own. Not a positive sign. Also, I’m turned to her and she’s still facing forward. I’ll try mirroring.

“That’s a very disturbing stick figure drawing. Does your mother know you have all this pent up aggression?”

“Hey, it’s your game. If you can’t handle it you shouldn’t ask to play.” She puts the pencil down with authority.

She brushes her cheek with the back of her hand. I put my hand to my face in a nearly identical gesture. Then I tug at the hair in back of my head. Almost instantly, she plays with a lock of hair on her head. Progress!

“Sounds like your parents have one of those relationships that most people envy.” I’m genuinely impressed.

“It hasn’t always been perfect, but yeah, I’m lucky to have them. They’re a good role model.”

I have my hand on her shoulder when she says this. I’m escalating kino by the book, but she’s not touching me in response at all. Her body language, while not cold, is not warming up either, although her punchy voice tone, her sincere smile, and her glittering eyes betray a deep emotional engagement.

It has been an hour and two drinks since we met this night. People are around us, but not much paying attention to us, except for one Slavic looking girl sitting with three men on the other side of the bar who keeps checking me out. Naturally, I notice this. When women’s eyes are on me, I feel a pleasant disturbance in my calm. A nuke could go off downtown and I’ll still take mental note of some random chick looking at me curiously.

Normally, this is the time of the date when I go for the kiss, but she has sent no signals that an advance toward her lips would yield victory. I’ve had girls faceturn on me before during a lip approach, and it’s an invisible blow to the solar plexus, but I always remind myself that the rejection of a spurned kiss is nothing to the regret of a kiss not taken. Yet… she is inscrutable. Not leaning into me, not leaning away from me. Smiling, but not licking her lips. Accepting of my touches, but not returning in kind. I absorb the tension of the moment, silent and serene, careful to avoid lurching clumsily into try-hard, but the seconds are ticking and the silence is expanding. I could put off the decision and move this conversation in a new direction, but then I risk losing momentum. If seduction were a balloon, overtalking is like pinching the knot to let the air escape slowly.

When I was new to the pickup arts, I defaulted to Mystery’s kiss routine to break the seal and kiss a girl on a first date (or first night). The routine was simple.

“Would you like to kiss me?”

If she says “Yes”, I go for the kiss.

If she says “No”, I say “I didn’t say you *could*… you just had that look on your face.”

If she says “Maybe”, I say “Let’s find out.”

It was a good routine, and never let me down, but as I (re)discovered through the accumulation of experience and memories of past seductions, it was totally unnecessary. The perfect first kiss is ushered wordlessly, imposed on the woman by sheer force of masculine will, intoxicating in its bold, unspoken grandeur, sophisticated in its exquisite timing. Cleverness and calculated filibuster, more often than not, detracts from its simple glory.

But still, I needed a sign. There is always a sign if you look for it.

As I finished speaking, I stared at her. In the silence, my pupils vibrated along a beam of mental wire connected to her pupils. An unmoved girl would quickly glance away. She would have, but not before a telling second passed when her gaze met mine and lingered, and I had all the excuse I needed. Plunging headlong into her aura of feminine repose, I struck the softness of her lips with purpose, and she answered with abandon.

The only kiss routine you need is this: does she hold your gaze for a second longer than is comfortable? If so, you must move. Failure to do so will constitute the loss of a magical moment that will never quite be recaptured in the same way again.

Read Full Post »

Ubiquitous Yoga Girls

In the evening on weekdays, the sidewalks teem with girls carrying yoga mats tucked under arms to or from classes. Their hair smartly propped in ponytails, perfectly round asses straining against black tights with neon green or peach colored waistbands rolled over the top, they are a flesh phalanx of trimmed and toned T&A. Women who are serious about yoga have the best all-around bodies of any group of exercising women — they beat out soccer players, joggers, bikers, swimmers, and porn stars. I don’t know if it’s the yoga itself that carves such exquisite hardbodies, or if yoga simply attracts Type A++ girls who hone in and sweat out with extreme prejudice 0.1% excess hip fat with the same mechomasculinized focus they apply to shuffling lawyer briefs, but I have yet to meet a woman who regularly attends yoga class who is out of shape. And I’ve taken a few classes. Believe me, ladies, I’m enjoying the view in the back row. Not a fatty or frumpy in sight. What town in America can claim that?

The steady stream of sidewalk yogettes had me thinking about avenues of approach. Surely, this was a rich vein of opportunity upon which to mine some clever opener to ride all the way to the naked Lotus position. Waiting at a crosswalk light, I peripherally ogled a short girl in — no surprise here — black tights and a green tank top cradling a rolled up yoga mat in her right armpit. Like Chuck and the intersect, I flashed archives of game knowledge until two potential openers pricked my consciousness.

The first I mouthed silently to myself to determine if it was acceptable. “Bikram?” No, I mentally discarded it. Though she sported the glistening sheen of a woman who might have just exited a Bikram studio, I felt the opener sounded like forced rapport. And questions demanding simple yes or no answers never make for good openers.

I used my backup opener instead, an example of the “ever notice” school of openers.

“Ever notice how people compete to have the largest yoga mat?”

She stared blankly at me for a second, before my word jumble organized itself into meaning for her. Then she smiled.

“No, that’s not something I’ve noticed.”

“Yours looks like it’s 12 feet long. You could roll that thing out like a red carpet.”

She chuckles. “Well, it’s not that long, and I’m not tall enough to need a 12 foot mat.”

“My yoga mat’s only two feet. I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with it, but my mom gave it to me.”

She laughs again. “Funny, you don’t look like the yoga type.”

I make a fake indignation face. “What, just because I’m ruggedly masculine I don’t fit the stereotype of a master yogi? I’m offended.”

The light changes. Shit, time’s out.

She loiters for a a split second before stepping into the crosswalk, which makes me think it’s a mini-IOI to go for the number close. But it’s a split second too short, and she begins walking forward. Over her shoulder, she smiles and tosses out one last morsel.

“Well, good luck finding a less embarrassing mat.”

A taxi making a left turn nudges into the pedestrian zone, almost brushing up against her leg. She gets distracted, and the moment evaporates. I want to smash a cinderblock into the taxi driver’s face. But then that’s not very serenely yogic, is it?

Serenity now…

Read Full Post »