Thursdays Rule

In the quest to uncover any hidden patterns in my dating experiences that might help me streamline operations, I’ve done a back of the cocktail napkin calculation of the total number of girls I’ve dated that led to intimate relations, assorted by which days I first met those girls.  I wanted to see if some days were better for meeting a slutty sexually responsive pool of available women.

Obviously, having a good memory is a factor in this analysis, but as a man I found it a lot easier to remember the exact day I met a girl I would eventually bang than it is to remember, for example, my niece’s name.

The following table shows the percentage of total intimacies by the day of the week that the successful pickup first began.

Day of First Meet                 Percent of Total Lays
Monday                                       5%
Tuesday                                      10%
Wednesday                                  0%  (!)
Thursday                                    30%
Friday                                         25%
Saturday                                     15%
Sunday                                        15%

I was a bit surprised by Wednesday’s goose egg.  Maybe this is dumb coincidence or faulty memory, or hump day (behold irony) is a black hole of suckage for meeting girls.  Is Wednesday Desperate Housewives night?  I wouldn’t know.

Friday’s results were predictable as more single girls go out on that night than any other by my guess, providing a richer target environment, but Saturday put up a less than stellar showing.  For all its pomp and circumstance as a great hookup night, Saturday actually blows.  It’s a date night for one, and the hordes of desperate men who didn’t meet anyone Friday night give it the old college try again on Saturday, smothering the good vibes with their massive sausage invasion.

Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday have been good considering their reputations as lonely barfly nights devoid of girls, but two things I’ve learned over the years are that any girl going out on an off-night is seriously looking to hook up (double hookup points if she braves it on a rainy weeknight) and logistics are favorable for you to take a girl home that night because weeknight venue patrons are more likely to be local.  Also, it doesn’t hurt that the venues aren’t swarming with drunk Axe-wearing clones.  Just be sure to avoid those bars that cater to the kickball flip cupper crowd.

For some reason, a lot of European women go out for drinks on Sundays and Mondays.

Thursday gets crowned Notch Night of the Week.  It has the best mix of quality and quantity, with just enough of a scene to make things interesting, yet suitably laid back to appeal to the types of women who don’t parade around clubs holding their girlfriend’s hands like circus elephants.  This is one of the great advantages to living in the city — rolling out on a Thursday night is not such a chore.

Conclusion:  there is selective filtering in action based on day of the week.  Quieter nights will have fewer opportunities, but the leads are stronger.  Busier nights have more opportunities, but on average they are weaker.  The best night is the one that strikes a balance between numbers and receptiveness.

Day game is limited to Saturday and Sunday, so unless you are unemployed and can spend all week trolling for other unemployed girls, it’s pointless to draw any lessons from the number of girls you have picked up during the daytime.

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Girlfriend or Fling?

It’s been a while since the last scientifically sound assessment.

I like analyzing groups because the interplay between everyone helps me decide which girl would be open for a same night lay and which one would be worth toughing out a few dates with before sexing.

The far left girl is clearly a fling.  Everything about her says “pain in the ass who bangs like a guy”.  The holes in the jeans, large hoop ho-rings, and bright red nail polish are enough to tip me off.  Throw in her solo shot drinking and it’s case closed.  Maverick drinking is a red flag for sluttiness.

The girl with the flower shirt standing next to her has girlfriend potential despite her tantalizingly exposed belly.  She has both her hands on her boozehound friend which means she is loyal and dependable.

The girl in the middle squeezing her way into the picture would make an excellent girlfriend (assuming she met your minimum looks threshold).  She is the girl who has always been in the background of life, ceding all the attention to her wilder friends.  She yearns for a brief moment in the spotlight, even the tiny spotlight of a club photographer’s flash.  These are the signs of a love-starved girl.  Expect her to enthusiastically answer your calls on the first ring and to save all your text messages.

The black dress girl in the foreground is a golddigger who will not give it up until the 15th date as evidenced by her severe hairstyle, and then only after you’ve blown ten girls’ worth of dating money on her.  She craves meeting a man who will bring the fling out of her.  She is leaning backwards in a block maneuver because she secretly can’t stand her needy friend behind her.  Or they’re a couple.

Blue shirt girl is a dirty little fling.  Don’t let her easy smile and girl scout bangs fool you.  She is leaning to the side so the camera doesn’t miss the full glory of her (fake) cleavage.  She is also the only girl in the picture in physical contact with a male body.  She’s that comfortable with her sexuality.

If you swing that way, funboy on the right would make an excellent girlfriend.  He is dressed too conservatively for anything but tender moments holding uncalloused hands by the reflecting pool.

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Going Car-less

My experiences with the DMV aka double jeopardy tax collection agency, the greatest racket in the history of mankind auto mechanic, and owning a car in a city where your length of residence can be read, like tree rings, by the number of dents and broken sideview mirrors it has, leads me to seriously contemplate selling my car.

It’s no surprise to anyone that cars are money pits.  Even late model cars like mine chew up dollars in gas, maintenance and fees.  On a recent Bataan death march to my mechanic I was given an estimate for $3,000 in general upkeep repairs, including $500 (!) for a replacement passenger side rearview mirror that was damaged from a hit and run collision on one lane wide two lane streets.  I asked him to do the bare minimum that would get me through the state inspection.  We haggled to $350.  I passed inspection after complimenting a female DMV station employee on her sense of shoe style so that she overlooked the mirror violation.

Besides the money, there is the inconvenience.  This is one of those transportation purgatory cities where the public transit options (taxi zone system ripoff) and distance between the neighborhoods are not quite conducive enough to be without a car all the time, yet the limited parking, traffic, road disrepair, and horrid driving skills of the locals make owning a car a perpetual headache.  Halfway between New York and LA is no place to be.

I’m not worried about what not having a car will do to my game.  There are many ways around this.  Since most young single girls are bleeding heart liberals, a simple appeal to fighting global warming should suffice.

Her:  So what time will you pick me up?
Me:  I’m not.  We’ll take a cab to the E Street cinema 7:45 showing of “The not-so-secret lives of gays, gays, gays, and more gays”.
Her:  You don’t have a car?
Me:  No, I sold it to reduce my carbon footprint.  Global warming is the greatest evil in the world, right up there with the 2nd amendment.  I don’t want to contribute to the melting of the glaciers with a selfish, overfed, American lifestyle.  Without the ice, where will the polar bears fornicate?  You’re not an anti-fornicator, are you?
Her:  *swoon*

Thank you, Al Gore, for helping my game.

If the environment doesn’t move her, I can always pre-emptively head off her objection.

Me:  I only date enlightened 21st century women who understand the value of low-impact living and embrace a post-automobile reality.  My last girlfriend, even though she was only 19 and so pretty that people thought she must not be smart, understood why I sold my car.
Her:  Oh, I walk around the city a lot!
Me:  Great.  I’ll pick you up on my skateboard.  It’s a one-seater, so you’ll have to sit on my shoulders.

It’s ironic that getting rid of my car, long an American symbol of freedom, now strikes me as a very liberating choice.  Perhaps one trip on the bus, where an acquaintance once witnessed a shooting that injured the bus driver, will change my mind.

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Window Stories

When I was a teenager, I kept in shape running along the boulevard-wide streets of my placid suburban neighborhood.  Unlike my runs around the city, I never had to look over my shoulder to make sure a car or bike messenger wouldn’t careen into me.   A car drove by once every half hour, tops.  There is nothing like running in such quietude that all you can hear is the slap of your feet on the asphalt and the chorus of late-August crickets rising from the manicured lawns.  IPods didn’t exist back then, but if they had I would’ve used them and been robbed of a cherished memory.

Running can be boring, especially to a teenager with a hyperactive mind fueled by supercharged hormones, so I had amused myself by pondering what was going on behind all the windows with their lights on.  Passing by my next-door neighbor the living room bay window glowed yellow through the curtains.  I wondered if this was the night they talked in hushed tones about divorce.  She was a horrible nagger and he always looked unhappy.  A block later I might see the bedroom light shine through the window in the house where the cute girl I had a huge crush on lived.  I was innocent back then so I imagined her writing in her diary about waiting impatiently for me to ask her out.  One late evening I caught a glimpse of her silhouette peering out from her window as I ran past.  I thrust out my chest and ran a little faster.

Now I entertain myself the same way when I run past urban apartments and condos.  The difference this time is in the density of windows.  So many more scenarios to dream up.  The suburbs hide secrets, but the city vibrates with them.

There’s a path I like to run, one that eventually takes me down a bridge and then over another bridge, where I pass by a lot of stately apartment buildings, their randomly distributed window lights flickering like cats’ eyes in the twilight, framing the stories of anonymous lives.  I mentally sketch out vignettes.  Here is a couple arguing about kitchen utensils… there is a guy blankly watching TV with his dog laying in his lap… and three floors up is a girl who starts her first job in two days just noticing the stain on her new skirt she’s modeling in front of the mirror.

Down the street more glimmering windows pop into view.  In one of them, maybe that one over to the right with the old silver-handled white refrigerator I can see through it, an ex is being slowly lowered onto her bed, unknown hands pulling up her shirt, a flash of skin followed by a moan.  She arches her neck and pulls up a leg.  Her nail polish color hasn’t changed.  For a second I wished the light would go out.  Another window and maybe I’ll see my silhouette girl.

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Ode to Bicyclists – A Poem

City streets to drive are harrowing
frustration mounts all red lights
no room to spare lanes are narrowing
oh fuck there’s a biker in my sights

he’s on the street obeying the law
no bikes on sidewalks where people roam
but this potholed lane can’t fit us all
i hit the brakes he ain’t armstrong

cars to the left of me biker to the right
i want to smash his sweaty face in with all my might
no room to maneuver there i stare
at this fat fuck’s plumbers crack in spandexwear

i’m late for work driving slower than idle
my sanity will suffer in a short while
this sidewalk policy is dumb and dumber
bike nerd needs to get off the road before i run him under

finally an opening to get around!
it’s a tight squeeze his ass is profound
i hit the gas and pass unopposed
then spew my carbon footprint right up his nose.

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Scenes From the Sexual Market

I shared space (acreage) on the elevator today with a woman pushing 300 pounds.  One of the VPs, a portly middle-aged man with strong body language, got on with us.  She exchanged a pleasantry with him and he briefly acknowledged her with a head nod.  She began telling him a story about her weekend when the elevator door opened and an attractive, slim Asian woman stepped in.  Right in the middle of the fat woman’s friendly conversation with him he promptly turned his attention to the Asian woman and offered up a big smile, eagerly asking about her week and flirting with her like he was a schoolboy with a puppy crush.

I watched the reaction of the fattie.  She looked chastened, forced to cut her own conversation off, and lowered her head looking at her shoes which were two sizes too small for her porky hooves.  I understood her pain, but I did not sympathize with it.  At her age, she should know how the world works.  If she wants to be treated better, she needs to lose a lot of weight and stop being a self-made sideshow freak.

Losers in life have to suffer in big and small ways every day, every hour, and every minute of their miserable existences.  Most of us don’t notice their suffering because we’re too wrapped up in our own dramas.  But suffer they do, their worthlessness as human beings getting shoved in their faces daily by others who aren’t even aware of their hurtful actions.

Welcome to the jungle.  There’s no opting out of this reality. 

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Date 2 Location Reviews

First dates should almost always be simple affairs over drinks or tea.  No dinners, no nights out on the town, no extravagant expenditures.  You want to keep expectations at bay and create a comfortable zone of unzipped-lipped, nimble-tongued, playful jive.  The two of you are reading each other like schematics to the bank vault and external logistics only gets in the way of those lingering looks and wily wordplay.

Second dates open up to more creative interpretation.   If the first date has gone well, (but not so well that you closed the deal), the second date should amp the attraction with a mix of venues and locations that help build a foundation of shared experiences.  You want to be in motion with her; give your bodies more room for expression and your senses more opportunities for stimulation.  With that in mind, here are my reviews of some common Date 2 locations in DC.

Lincoln Memorial at Night

Cheesy, trite, and very effective.  You don’t have to blow away your date with originality if the ambience is perfect as is.  And the Lincoln Memorial, on the steps at midnight under a summer moon, shrouded in the glow of the reflecting pool, sets an unbeatable mood for encouraging closeness.  After the early night drinks, surprise her with a car trip to the Lincoln.  There’s plenty of parking nearby late at night.

Sculpture Garden Ice Skating

Unless your date can do triple sow cows and the Blades of Glory “crotch scissors”, skating with her means you’ll have plenty of chances to demonstrate your male protector role by holding her when she stumbles or letting her grab onto your arm for support as she struggles to find her balance.  The crowd will always work in your favor; whether the rink is filled with canoodling couples that enhance the romantic mood or kids skating recklessly around you that provide an energetic boost and lots of humorous material, you can’t go wrong here.  In the summer, there is an outdoor jazz festival at the sculpture garden.  Drinks at the patio bar are overpriced.

Billiards or Darts

Playing pool with her means lots of good-natured teasing.  Plus, most girls are not good at pool and will need you to show them how to properly hold the stick and shoot.  You can only do this from behind.  That is intimate body contact on the sly.  The best places are small basement-level pool halls that double as dive bars.  Bedrock Billiards and Kokopoolis come to mind.  Stay away from auditorium sized pool halls, as they are too impersonal.  Also, don’t bother with tiny bars that have only one pool table — what usually winds up happening is that other guys wait around to play next and you and your date get jostled all night by drunks trying to navigate the tight spaces between the table and the walls.  Cautionary note:  If your date is a shark (there seem to be an inordinate amount of DC girls who know how to shoot stick) then be sure not to let the ego-bruising show.  Just tell her you let her win this time.

The Pleasure Palace

If your date is one of those freaky chicks you picked up at DC9, take her to this sex toy shop on Conn Ave in Dupont.  Pretend to be walking down the street to a different location when you two just happened upon this dirty little place and oh, wow, wouldn’t it be cool to see what kinds of creepy things they sell in here!  Once inside, act like you never saw this stuff before.  [Examining glow in the dark clit tickler]  “What the heck is this?  Do you stir pasta with it??”  Don’t loiter, it’ll start to seem skeevy.  If she was really into it, take her across the street to the gay Lambda bookstore next to Kramerbooks for a good laugh.  While browsing the educational material, ask her, “Do lesbians really do this?”  This will smoke her out as a possible bisexual.  Tailor your game accordingly.

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