Dating Doesn’t Have to Be a Chore

Late summer afternoons, when I was a young teenager full of innocence, suburban angst, and sappy love poems, I would bike past a certain house to catch a glimpse of the girl who, by dint of having never been corrupted by actual bedsharing, would remain a lifelong figure of purity to me.  Being my first lust object, she set the gold standard against which future girls would unknowingly compare.

Such a vision she was, that even from a non-stalker distance her miniature form made my heart thump like a wet drum.  She stood up from her chaise lounge chair in the front lawn to apply suntan lotion, long sweeping motions up and down her arms, wearing corduroy shorts and a white bikini top.  I stopped my bike to watch her, transfixed.  She sat, laid on her stomach, and didn’t protest her straight dark brown hair when it dropped in silky ribbons across her face as she read a book.  To this day, the memory lingers as powerfully as the smell of my grandparents’ house, or the first time I got a bloody lip in a fight.  Eventually she moved, and the memory is all I have of her.

It’s easy to get the dating doldrums from years of being in the field.  Age tempts the spirit with weariness.  Learning the ropes and becoming proficient at game makes you realize that women respond like automatons to certain stimuli just like men do.  The princess pedestal that men start out putting women on quickly crumbles with real world experience.

Life is ugly like that.  The trick is to live as if the underbelly of life had no authority over your mood.  You understand that it is there, and even use it to your advantage, but you never let the poet in you be subsumed by the machine.  Happiness is equal parts realistic appraisal and self-delusion.  There is indulgent joy in putting women on pedestals — it splashes color into your life that could easily turn monochrome from cynicism.

So many men and women have become irretrievably jaded with the dating scene.  They’ve seen it all, heard it all.  Dating for them has become a chore whose only purpose is to efficiently ascertain the suitability of a person as potential relationship material.  Just the way I wrote that previous sentence pretty much sums up how modern dating feels.  The whole enterprise takes on the flavor of checking off a grocery list.  The sheer giddiness of sharing the company of a date and careening recklessly in the emotional whitewater gets lost along the way.

I know that game works.  I know that women aren’t unfathomable creatures.  I know that the beastly side of life always has its maw open ready to swallow you whole at the slightest misstep.  I know that once women pass that magical age of 26 a part of their femininity morphs into an accountant consumed with bottom line analysis and dreary practical concerns.  None of this stops me from approaching the pursuit of sex and love with anything less than fiery ardor.  When I see an attractive girl in a candle shop or across a club I remember how I felt when I watched that ribbon of hair tumble across the face of the girl sunning herself in her front lawn.  And all is good.

None of the dirty, crusty filth of life has any hold over me.  That memory stays with me for a reason.  It guides my way.  Recall your own sweet memories when you see a girl you want to meet and the feelings anchored with that will show in everything you do.  If your passions are strong enough you can drag an accountant away from her cash flow spreadsheets.

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Another Convert

An American friend, let’s call him Phil, has discovered the bounties of East European girls.  After a lifetime of drama dating compatriots of every known taxonomy, he recently hooked up with a cute Polish chick and, in his words, “there’s no going back”.  We had an IM exchange where he explained his revelation:

Phil: she gave me a BJ in the park
Phil: behind a tree
Me: how long have you been going out?
Phil: a few weeks
Phil: she is completely sexually uninhibited
Phil: have you ever had a girl lick your asshole?
Me: she’s already doing that for you?
Phil: well, not quite. i didn’t want her to. so she licked the taint.
Me: TMI
Phil: that’s not the half of it
Me: your game must be exceptional
Phil: actually, i used very little game on her
Phil: she said she was going for a walk and i said “why don’t you join me for a walk near my place”.
Me: and two weeks later her tongue was on your taint
Phil: as if it was the natural progression of things
Me: no shit tests?
Phil: not a one. her sincerity actually confused me at first.
Me: how old is she?
Phil: 23 [editor’s note: considerably younger than my friend]
Phil: i told her i was going to tell my friends about her, the sex stuff and everything
Phil: and she said “it’s OK to share our joy with your friends”
Me: wow
Phil: she treats me like a king
Phil: she loves sex
Phil: you should see her smile when she sees me.
Me: is she shorn?
Phil: yep, and she offered to shave mine
Me: i hear wedding bells
Phil: i can’t believe what i’ve been missing all these years
Phil: no more yentas for me

And so another red-blooded American male urbanite has succumbed to the sweet nectar of foreigner love, forever turned off to the idea of dating the homegrown talent.  Phil said that if, in the future, he found himself in the company of an American girl his expectations for her would be much higher.  Thanks to the eye-opening experience with this girl, there are certain behaviors and outlooks on life he just won’t abide anymore.

I asked him, as good as things were with his Polish girl, if he thought there was a catch.  His answer?  “When is there not a catch?  At least with her, getting caught doesn’t feel like a power struggle.”

Phil is now a big proponent of importing into the US millions of young women from former Communist countries.

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Hottest Lovemaking Ever

according to a girl whose opinion I value.

Set the scene.  A man is returning home after having been away for months, maybe years, sacrificing his body in war or his comfort in third world charity work.  He is scarred from his experiences but has kept the memory of his lover close throughout his ordeal, giving him the strength and willpower to complete his mission and fulfill his duty to his principles.  All he could think about during his lonely nights that stretched into lonely weeks without end was the face of his lover.  Sweating under a hot sun and surrounded by suffering he had imagined her soft kisses and the light touch of her fingertips.  In moments of despair he visualized himself home, racing into her arms, lifting her up as her hair tumbled around them.

But now, the reality is even sweeter than his dreams.  They rush into each other, kissing until they are short of breath, grasping and clenching so tightly there isn’t a shard of daylight between their pressed bodies.  He carries her into bed, his hunger from months of forbearance suddenly released in a cataclysm of desire, his heart pounding so hard she can feel it through the sheets which have twisted into knots between them.  Overcome by his lust, she falls back and lets him soak her in.  She has never felt more feminine.  To be loved so absolutely that every worry vanishes and happiness shrouds her in serenity makes her feel almost ashamed.  They drift off in bliss.

Me, personally… I like it on top of the kitchen counter.

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“I only take Viagra when I’m with more than one woman.”

Fame, wealth, and charisma have made Jack Nicholson the heartbreaker of 2,000 women.  At the age of 70, and looking every bit of it, he spends his leisure time in boats with a tumbler in one hand and a bevy of young women draped around him like his royal concubines.  This means Jack is The Man.

I’ve got the biggest tits here.

I can already hear the female chorus of unctuous naysayers.  “Oh, I would *never* sleep with him.  He’s gross!”  “Fame and money don’t matter to me. It’s the man inside that counts.”  “If Jack Nicholson came onto me I’d turn him down.”

Right.

You don’t know how you’d act in the company of a major male celebrity, but I can guarantee you it wouldn’t be anything like you say you’d act from the comfort of your bedroom where there is no chance of ever meeting Nicholson.  Virtue is easy when you have no other choice.

A face-to-face meeting between Jack and a good girl who scoffed at the idea that she would submit to his charms would be a sight to behold as she gradually abandoned every one of her principles. 

First, her heart would race.  But she’d try to remain calm and aloof.  After all, she’s not like those starfucking sluts.  Then, Jack would speak.  And it would sound just like all those movies she watched with him in it.  He might even drop a quote or two.  *sqeal*!  Oh boy, her composure is starting to crack.  Maybe Jack might lasciviously angle his body so that his hot Oscar-winning breath blows across her neck and his belly brushes her arm.  He does this with his trademark sunglasses reflecting the light and his shit-eating joker grin exuding total unstoppable confidence.  She no longer notices his belly and man boobs.  Her loins feel like a rainforest. 

She looks around and something she does notice is how many beautiful women are languidly caressing Jack’s body, laughing at his every word, blatantly aroused to the point of orgiastic explosion.  For some inexplicable reason, noticing this turns her on even more.  Parrots and monkeys are swinging through her snatch.  Jack pats his lap.  No words exchanged; she walks over and sits in it.  He smells like drunken old man, but all she can think of is how attractive his eyes are when he squints from the sun.  Minutes later, in the cabin, Jack’s wang is driven in to the hilt.  Heeeere’s little johnny!

A woman’s principles are like an impressionistic painting — beautiful to contemplate from a distance but all over the place once you get up close.

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Love

No one goes on vacation thinking of the long ride home.

What is unique about love is that it alone among all the human desires defines by its absence the utterly meaningless life.  With love, the poor person can feel rich as if the struggles of his survival were minor inconveniences.  With love, the old person forgets his age.  With love, the young person sheds his angst.  A man can amass a kingdom’s fortune and an emperor’s power but without love his worldly successes stand like hollow totems to unhappiness.  What good is anything if it doesn’t ultimately reach a conclusion in love?  The wealthy businessman who spends all his hours in his office and wastes his years whistling past the grave being too busy for love is a loser no less than the unloved degenerate street bum.  Sushi tastes better than a 20 dollar bill.

The mischievous thing about love is that as vital as it is to a fulfilling stint in consciousness, it mocks its own importance with reminders that it rests precariously on a foundation of some very banal preconditions.  People fall out of love and it is rarely for lofty reasons.  A man loves a woman until she gains 50 pounds.  A woman loves a man until he loses his job and goes unemployed for months on end.  And when that pretty face turns ashen and carved with the years will it really be love anymore?  Those crass attraction buttons still have to be pressed for love to appear and then to sustain itself.  Self-delusion about the dirty business behind love is not only required, it’s inevitable.  Why ruin the fun by obsessing over the dull ride home?

A lot of seducers mistakenly think that love is a garnish to the main course of pursuing and winning the hearts of women.  They compartmentalize — it’s a bonus to feel love, but damned if they’ll let that get in the way of the good times.  The worst thing to happen to a guy who gets ass regularly is not rejection (after all, rejection is the badge of honor worn by womanizers) but falling in one-sided love.  Or, similarly, falling in love only to have his woman dump him.  Getting dumped is part of the game, and can be expertly handled, especially if there are fallback options.  But the alpha who succumbs to the folly of love opens himself up so completely that state control is no longer his prerogative.  He risks everything, including his most cherished asset… his trust.

This is the wrong way of approaching relationships.  It’s fine to be calculating about the pick up, and the dating, and even the relationship management, but attempting to corral as thermonuclear an emotion as love is only going to light the fuse on the bomb.  I’ve seen many players sabotage their relationships with really great girls who had captured their hearts because they feared losing control under the chaos of being in love.  They put all this effort into bedding her and making her fall for them that they lost sight of the main objective.  A man can be all alpha but if he doesn’t cash it in for the ultimate prize he’s revealed the beta at his core.

I once lost a girl I loved.  The rush of pain was so intense even a fight club pummeling couldn’t have distracted me from it.  But I didn’t stoically shrug it off.  I threw glasses at the wall.  I broke things.  I smashed up my apartment.

If you aren’t smashing stuff after losing a lover you don’t know the pleasure of relinquishing everything for love.

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The Pump

“The pump is better than coming in a woman.”*

It’s been a long while.  Some nagging injuries and laziness have kept me out of the gym (I mean the real gym with plates of iron, not the one you froo froos go to for your spin classes and low impact hiney-toning spazrobics), but I’ve returned. After only a couple of months the strength and the feeling of being able to take on anything that comes my way is back.  And there’s no going back to being a couch potato; weight training is just too beneficial not to make it a lifelong commitment.  Ferchrissakes, it actually reverses the aging process!

Gaining new strength and mass has always been an uphill battle for me.  I’m a natural ectomorph, which means women who like barrel-chested stocky men should look elsewhere.  If I were playing for the other team, I’d never be invited to any “bear” parties.  Getting older also means muscle gains come slower and recovery times between workouts get longer.  Injuries happen easier as well, which explains why the older guys in the gym are so focused on proper lifting form.  Going to failure on the warm-up set and crashing the bar into your chest on every rep is a fool’s game played by the wet behind the ears.

A few things I’ve noticed about gym culture:

It’s not hard to spot the roid muscle from the natural stuff.  Guys who juice have a weird inflated look to the muscles, and their skin seems paper thin.  Plus, they have the tell-tale “roid gut” which looks like they swallowed a ripped keg.  Good for impressing other guys; not so good for impressing girls.

Girls using the hip adductor machine are placing towels over the pelvis.  Sweet Jesus, is nothing free anymore?  Your privates are already clothed, it’s not like we guys are getting a zoomed porno shot of your goods. Taking recreational glimpses in between our sets of girls on this exercise machine, legs spread as wide as they’ll go, gives us masturbation material for at least a couple nights.  Don’t reduce the joy in the world.

Creatine, BCAAs, and whey protein are your best (legal) friends.

The gym pickup is totally possible.  Yeah, we’ve all heard how women don’t like to be hit on at the gym where they are “under construction” and not fully prepped to be approached by guys, but nevermind that.  I find a spot next to a cutie to do my bike or treadmill warmup, preferably one not wearing headphones, though if she is a light tap on her arm, smiling, and a motion to take off her headphones works well.  Here’s where I come in with the fun stuff.  Never be serious in a gym pickup.  That’s a killer.  Usually there’s a TV set nearby so I’ll say something like “I can’t believe what’s on this TV.  Sports again!  And golf no less.  What’s a guy gotta do to watch a little Desperate Housewives in the gym?  Is that too much to ask?” Anything to get her laughing and smiling, because if you look around that’s the last thing girls are doing in the gym.  Get her attention, open with a situational observation, then playfully flirt.  That’s the basic formula.  Once I’m in, I start vibing.  Running the treadmill is fucking boring so most girls I’ve successfully opened would welcome a 10 minute conversation.  I wait for her to start asking me questions, then move into my close.  I tell her I have to get back to my real workout but that I liked talking with her and we should hang out.  Then I suggest a date to meet, usually one not too far in the future.  I don’t have a phone with me, so I say “Just give me your number.  Don’t worry, I have a feeling I won’t forget it.” Then I get back to working out so it doesn’t look like I’m at the gym to pickup chicks.

Alright, back to throwing iron.  Here’s motivation to set an example for all those pasty-assed nerdos hiding under their mama’s beds:

*Arnold later retracted this statement

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An Emotionally Charged Story in 50 Words

I’ve been reading this book which claims that the workplace future belongs to right-brain thinkers.  I don’t entirely buy the author’s argument (can the U.S. really run on nothing but humanities majors?), but he does include some interesting “creativity enhancing” exercises in the back of the book, one of which is to write a mini-narrative exactly 50 words long, including a beginning, middle, and end.

Here is my Saturday mini-narrative:

Bright sunshine beckoned me and a female companion to the vineyards of Virginia.  We arrived with hot afternoon drunkenness in mind.  No spitting for us; we swallowed every swig.  “Please don’t embarrass me,” pleaded my companion.  Cue embarrassment.  I yanked a grape cluster from a vine.  We fled, sexually aroused.

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