In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”
- Stephen Crane
My ending the night by violating this brunette pixie is a fact already come and gone in my mind; an exertion enjoyable, to be sure, but nothing of lasting interest or concern. What remains keenly within my consideration, however, is how many licks will it take to get to the delicious center, Mr. Turtle? Very nice skirt. A tip-off. The top is always game for debate in regard to her outlook on getting pillaged and plundered that night. Look to the bottom. See what she’s wearing over the money spot. Or money slot. Depends on who you screw.
Among the many options in life, I’ve narrowed mine down to two: Being a Fucker, or getting Fucked. What’s in between is hemming and hawing. As would any reasonable, self-respecting creature, I prefer the former to the latter.
Tim, ask, and you shall receive. Here is an account, first person, firsthand, from which I hope you can learn. A grimoire if you will. I aim for a close-to-true rendering of this practice that has brought me little but misery. Find your joy in it, if you can. I know it’s what you think you’re looking for. The sweet end to a sour tour of duty.
First, mon ami, you have to find yourself a place or three. Look for upscale/trendy, but not too trendy/upscale. Girls, or women, looking for a night out to boost morale will often start somewhere…like here. You know this place, even if you haven’t been. Conjure the Central West End: ivied, iron lattice-work and uncomfortable chairs. Even the psychotropically smeared scenes of Venice and Tuscany from that ‘60s throwback who paints vinyl and gives away the vari-colored albums for spare change. It’s all there. Now throw that locale into SoCal, add some adobe in pastel, and you’ve got your picture with a cheap rhyme to boot.
You’re looking for something low-key, where she could be having coffee, or preferably an adult beverage, alone, without feeling dateless. It’s a place people go before they go out. It’s a place to read a book or the paper. A place where Harry could meet Sally, over and over again.
Make it open, airy, where even if a man were to seat himself with her, there are still people on the sidewalk passing the patio the whole night to keep it comfortable. Make it non-threatening. Females, whether they’re willing to admit it or not, are threatened all the time. Even if they don’t see themselves as victims, other people inevitably do, and many of them are all too wary of that fact. Finding a comfort zone immediately draws down a number of perimeter defenses. Major thoroughfare, non-threatening, and not overly expensive. This is the way men such as you and I, for whom the “club scene” is repellent and redundant, negotiate our ass. Conversation and deduction, because we’re not Patrick Swayze enough to dirty dance into Baby’s pants.
Don’t ever waste your time and money in the posh places unless you’ve got a reason to be there. You’re only kidding yourself, unless you’re really not kidding. And the line between your desperation and the total confidence required almost doesn’t exist – good luck walking it. The answer is simply never to be that hard-up for cash.
Anyway, that’s what she wants, when you find her here. A man (or woman if you’re not careful) to notice her. Subsequently sit down with her. So she can conjure her lonely lie about how her girlfriends were bitches and decided to go to a club instead, or how she’d stopped over after work and gotten engrossed correcting papers, studying for the LSAT or GRE, losing herself in a lonely pasta, yakkity yak, variations on a theme, all of which translates to: I Don’t Feel Like Sleeping Alone Tonight.
So she can feel a little bit better about herself. That’s all it really ever comes down to.
You just have to read it right. Almost completely shot pedicure, hair’s about 3 weeks overdue for new coloring, and you know she’s in a rut. You can probably hedge your bets on the lawn not having been mowed in a fortnight or so. Her sitting here is impulse. She’s out to break a routine, to attempt to give in to the random, but doesn’t really believe anything’s going to happen. Hence the half-assed attempt. The unplucked eyebrows. The complete lack of jewelry or adornment. You have to be the random. The unassuming. The guy she sees, but doesn’t see her. Fantasy-building is key in mounting any offensive of this sort. Having something to do encourages this process. It gives her an imagined window into your interior life. Certainly look disinterested. Even if it’s scribbling on a napkin. A pen is a must, at all times. Initially indifferent/preoccupied, for this particular type of setup, is crucial.
Already, just by practice, intuition alone, I know she relishes having the backs of her knees licked. I know that she loves the way she looks with her glasses off ‘cause she likes to pretend she doesn’t know she’s pretty, and that she’s not long out of a shitty relationship. Her body language is clearly ‘cautiously open’. Look at the tilt of the shoulders, the slightly scrunched posture, the need to run and hide battling this feeble attempt to keep herself open to change. Look how vulnerable that pose is. Someone has bent her spirit, but not broken it. She doesn’t look abandoned. Just lost.
Pay attention. Each variable throws a tumbler in her chastity belt. It is Man’s great lament, and failure, that he fails to realize the tuna taco opens not with a mere skeleton key. The Divinia Commedia? Faust? The First Folio? They’re all about tail gained and lost, tail never gained, tail it turns out you didn’t want to gain, or tail gained, lost, and regained. Don’t let yourself be the next victim. Don’t ever do the pining, the mooning, the sighing. You might retch out a masterpiece, but you’ll probably end up fellating a .12 gauge pump action Winchester.
Such morally dubious motivations are not for everyone, but if you want to be a scribbler and a well-sated man, if you want this elbow-deep immersion in humanity, you must Love The Pursuit. Above all else. Love, in its sundry and subtle forms, should permeate everything that you do. Let her Feel The Love, Timmy. She doesn’t need to know why you love leaving flowers, cooking with flour, and deflowering. All she needs to know is that you love doing it for (to) her.
I know you’ve thought about using the Internet. This does not qualify as The Pursuit. The taste will go quick. Trust me. It leaves nothing to the imagination…nothing to instinct. I suppose, it’s a loss of the chase, for me personally. For a lot of others I’ve spoken to (these are people of our ilk, my man, listen to me here), it strips away that sense of actually having accomplished something. If you’re going to match your zodiac signs, turn ons and turn offs, ‘fav’ books and movies and other such trifles, you know…save yourself the trouble. Slip her some Gamma Hydroxybutyric Acid instead, and have done with it. What’s the fucking point if there’s no challenge to fucking? If you’re too lazy to perform date rape, go buy a robotic vagina. They make them now. They’re even self-moistening, unlike some real vaginas.
Here we have flesh. Life. Something to interpret. Not a bulletin board of her personality. Only subtle clues. For instance, she has the Kabalistic Tree of Life inked on her left foot, just peeking out from under the sandal strap. Probably thinks no one knows what it is. Most of the good ones adore stuff with deeply layered meanings. Get to know your runes, your myths, your Asian scripts, and your dream interpretation. Any extra insight is one step closer.
A tat on the top of the foot hurts like a bitch. Nothing but skin and bone down there. So she’s tough, or she made a damn poor choice that made her cry. Shit, I’d cry. Then again, she might be a masochist. If so, surefire fun in the sack. Only fuck a sadist if you’ve got mommy issues to work out. Either way, she stuck it out till it was done. That’s the telling aspect.
I’d like to shift her inside, get that little over-sweater off to see if there’s any more art. Tattoos on any woman, provided she hasn’t made previous COPS appearances, can potentially tell you volumes. A true woman…one truly worth your time anyway, reveres her body. For us, it’s just this meaty suit we clomp around in, trying to have fun with. With the fairer crowd, it is generally not so. And I’m not thinking about thick chicks with hot pink beansprout dreadlocks sporting ink sleeves depicting battle scenes from the Silmarillion, or some twisted business like that. I’m talking about personal concepts of beauty and power conceived from within, elegantly etched without. Sigils and talismans to ward off conformity.
She removes her glasses for the first time, and I see that she’s done a better job on the makeup than I thought. The dusting of silver blue eyeshadow, dab of lip gloss; she’s definitely trying to fly below the radar. A woman dresses up, and the visual and verbal raping begin. It’s unquestionable. A mere flash of cleavage will set most any homo erectus, well…erect. But for a woman to go incognito as it were, low-maintenance, and have someone be attracted to her “natural look”, her “inner light” and all that jazz, it’s a secret hope, and a rare sort of confidence booster.
Tori Amos or Ani Difranco - one of the two are a sure go for this gal. Her bo-ho chic purse reeks of indie-rock and wine and Brie parties. But it doesn’t go with her outfit. She’s got that insanely thick, curly hair – not an afro – but dripping fat curls that are almost impossible to straighten or even negotiate with. Looks like she tried having a talk with them. It’s braided and woven up into some sort of crown deal that’s beginning to fall down, dangling ringlets all around her face. She’s had it up that way all day. Her look was planned as messy-cute-professional, but she was running late to work. Hence the mismatched purse and the awkward librarian glasses.
The specs are thick and dark-rimmed. Maybe tortoiseshell. She’s got another, sexier pair she intended to wear today, but couldn’t find in the morning rush. These are her Don’t Hit On Me Unless You’re Serious Glasses, also known by my preferred moniker, as the Clark Kent Maneuver. You can always tell the difference between Clark Kents, and the very carefully considered optical apparatus on the face of a girl prettier with her glasses on. Girls prettier without will plunk down damn near any dark-framed plastic on their heads, and call it a day. They only have them on for the taking off anyway.
And then, the ever-present dilemma – the line that doesn’t sound like a line. I’ll agonize over a lead to a pick-up more than a lead to an article anytime. If she’s going to fall in lust(love?) with you, it’s crucial that the feed doesn’t sound like it was tenderized and marinated before you served it. Because she’s going to remember it, guaranteed, if you get past the first thirty seconds. They always remember the first night. You have to bleed authenticity from the get-go. All of a sudden you, out of the throng of assholes that have sleazed by her condescending gaze, must transcend, rise above, be the true, the honest, the swoon, the Boy she’s been looking for all this time.
Learn to believe your own lies. If you’re going to own it, anyway. It’s a lot of pressure. You’d be surprised by the amount of times I’ve chickened, track record considered and all. You know, Timmy, I’m honored you came to me. I have a lot to show you.
She’s firing up her iPod, selecting a playlist of morose or bittersweet songs. It’s obvious she hasn’t made it to the motivational, or independence inspiring stage yet. Breakup is fresh on her. I’ve gotta come up with something. Anything completely self-immersive is bad. If you’ve made your decision to go forward, don’t let the target get too involved; you’ll just end up an unwelcome intrusion if she’s visibly shut herself off from the surroundings. Receptivity can go from 100% to zero in no time at all. There’s a fine line between you being a happy coincidence, and you being a freak. You have to stay on top of that shit.
What’s she reading? What’s going on tonight? Why are you here by yourself? Who are you? All questions you’ve let slip by the wayside, and now the crucial moment has arrived before you even expected it. You have to be ready to be ready on the fly. But besides being experienced, I’m lucky tonight. Latch onto Luck’s pigtails whenever that fickle bitch flounces by.
A woman with a book makes for an easy approach. Most instinctively don’t want to offend or repulse… and talking about literature is a perpetual asexual In, so at least 3 out of 5 times (this also depends on the city and the book), count on a reader not to shoot you down immediately. Again, I emphasize, this hinges on choosing wisely, based on the evidence at hand. If she’s sucking down a Candace Bushnell novel, and you’re not a CEO or some heartofgold butch master carpenter with a trust fund big enough to live the lifestyle in Manhattan, don’t waste your fucking time. Unless you’re up to play a farce. ‘Course keep in mind, playacting only lasts so long if you don’t have the Prada and the Benz and the Frank Gehry furniture to back it up. Alternately, if you’re looking for a night at the carnival, and she’s reading some bunk romance drivel with fuzz-lensed Olympian deities clinging to each other on the cover – dive in. It is my hope, though, that you’ll go for someone reading something aside from mind-fluff. Go for the challenge. Shoot for the chick reading Knut Hamsun. Or Bukowski. I want to meet a woman that isn’t ugly, that reads Bukowski.
Most will be immediately flattered that you’re interested in their opinion. A woman who wasn’t a literature major, with whom you’ll talk about literature, will certainly have her intellect stroked. Those who were literature majors are generally stigmatized by the fact that most of the courses and literature professors available in a university curriculum are overwhelmingly male-dominated. Any male willing to openly engage (Engage, not dominate!), a woman in such conversation automatically gains points by proxy; being well-read only furthers your cause.
Odds are this one was a Lit major. The corners on the book are dog-eared, some of them bent in to mark passages, and the occasional bit of green highlighter jumps from the page. If she was only moonlighting in a literature class, the book would probably be new, or close to it. She had this one long before a class came along. A girl sporting this season’s thousand dollar Kimono Mink Hobo Coach bag doesn’t have or buy grubby used books, unless she’s a bookworm.
In addition, a woman reading a book (Excepting the following [Extremes to be avoided]: anything blatantly New Ageist, Feng Shuist, Scientologist, South Beach Dietist, Self-Actualizationist, The Bible or related religious tracts, US Magazine [or any offshoots thereof], or anything relating to female *giggle* empowerment *giggle* via cross-pollination *giggle* of maneating, money-grabbing, and heartmelting vulnerability *giggle* under a tough independent exterior *giggle*), is going to be more worthy of your efforts. You, the bibliophile, know this. It ups the ante. The larger a woman’s bookshelf, mon ami, the more unattainable she becomes. The common roads close, and uncommon ones open. And as Blake says, the crooked roads, are roads of genius.
There is a particular genius in personality, especially women’s. This effect of the mind, the collection of information and sensation and everything else that sneaks in and gets spewed back out – it is most often the shaper of human events. Even of Fate. All we ever have to act on are our own perceptions. If we are able to perceive the complexity of the female personality, which is really not so complex, but rather moves in a free-form fashion qualitatively different from the typical masculine arrow’s flight rationale, we can feed her the information she wants, and elicit the responses we require. That is provided she is not a complete anomaly…as many of them dangerously are.
Talking about women requires more qualifiers than anything I’ve ever put a pen to.
I recommend reading Maureen Dowd, in addition to whatever else you’re doing. She’s a preeminent political commentator/op-ed columnist for the New York Times, but also, one of the savvier writers around, even if she does suffer from a penchant for self-promotion. (But who doesn’t?) Dowd appeals to both sexes, unless the girl’s a Republican – and what the Hell would you be on a date w/ a Republican for except a spitefucking – she’s damn funny and astute, and on top of that, your average gradschool twentysomething is going to be impressed that a man has any use for a woman’s views in politics. The little things go a hell of a long way. It’s amazing in our so-called liberated society, the Y-chromosome oppression that they feel. The smart ones, anyway. I mean, I can throw you a pattern, a fucking outline that will work for years to come. You can be the ghost of a quote unquote enlightened man, and land more trim than you can handle. It’s all in the delivery.
Though it’s not necessary, I prefer a fully developed character. There are a few at my disposal. Obviously, the same asshole will not work for every project.
Please Note: Being physically attractive and/or fit, intellectually and/or humorously dexterous, or simultaneously displaying cash and class are crucial to the aforementioned, and henceforward notations on The Pursuit. You have to do something to make yourself worthwhile, you fucking slob.
Not you Tim. I know you’re worth their time sweetheart. That’s my nod to the punk-shit teenagers peppering classmates and teachers with gunfire because their balls are blue to the brim from wallowing in mediocrity. Shave your face, get a tan, rock a natural hair shade, wear something in the color spectrum, and maybe you can stuff that fucked up postmodern hormone-ridden angst into some virgin creamsicle. That’s what being a teenager is about. Drinking beer, getting laid, and driving around. I can build a computer from the ground up, but log off www.imapussy.org/futuresociopath.htm and do something before your brain and morals unhinge, fuckbag.
Sorry about that. I had not realized, dear friend, what a fine platform from which to shout things this could become. I haven’t worked on anything in a long time, that has anything at all to do with me. Which means you’re probably going to get way too much of me. Here’s to hoping it doesn’t cramp the entertainment. If nothing else I figure you can use a good read, something familiar, while you’re out there.
Fornication is a good thing. A necessary sin, because it gets the evil out. A place to put your burdens. Remember this Tim: No matter what they want to make you think, unless it results in HIV or a non-treatable VD, sex is a winner. I know you’ve got cookie crumbs of Catholic guilt in your bunk. I sure do. I still want a shower after knocking boots. Every time. For future reference, this is a suggestion often met with fierce opposition, unless they’re invited. Sometimes even if they are invited. Most women do not want to have to note your desire to wash them off, directly after your most intimate moments. ‘Course then again, you might not have that problem at all. I’m a bit of a clean freak.
Ha. Knocking boots…
Oh, look, the brown-haired girl is about to drop the ball. She puts the iPod down and opens her bookbag, and her USC shorts fall out along with her biology 101 book, a paper with the name Susannah at the top and a ton of change. All I could ask for, and a little bit more. She’s reading Fahrenheit 451.
It shouldn’t be this easy.
“Did you just start at USC?” I hand her an errant quarter and the biology book. I didn’t have anything particularly slick prepared for this unexpected boon, so I go with the obvious.
“My second degree,” she replies. She’s about 29. A sly smile to help her realize the starting college thing was definitely an underhanded compliment.
“Did you miss biology 101 first time around...?”
“Completely different major.”
“What changed?”
“Repeated failure, followed by financial woe.”
“You’re, let me guess…you look like…a Susan. No, Susannah?”
“You saw that on my paper.” She’s unimpressed and sharp. I like it.
“I didn’t even know you were there. You’re the one that started throwing quarters at me.” A silly gamble that pays. She grins.
“A bullshitter,” hair flip.
“Not professionally,” snarky smile.
“What do you do professionally?” Wow, is she going for the jugular already? She hasn’t even asked my name yet. What is it this time, I have to ask myself…and you have to get some practice in to ask yourself a question while you’re in action. I’ve no problem with it, no visible hesitation. But my brain hesitates. It’s been doing that lately. My tongue nearly strokes the truth.
“I’m working as a PA by day, and moonlighting as a technical writer for the astrophysics department at UCLA. They give me their mumbo jumbo, I turn it into something almost readable, and post it on their webpage. Boring, right?”
“Only if you make it. How boring are you?” Watch for this. If she ever turns a harsh 180° on a charming self-deprecation, drop them and go full force on the confidence. Not overconfidence. No compensations here, my friend. Just confidence. Self-deprecation can be a device for dropping insecurities, and the woman who isn’t interested in cutely/kindly refuting your negative claim about yourself is a woman who’s progressed beyond the petty/easy games. A woman of this sort will certainly opt for her finger over the Ken doll crotch you just replaced your cock with, if you continue to insult yourself.
Susannah’s actually got this little elfin, smartass cute thing going on. The way she wiggles her toes in her sandals when she talks is adorable. Her upper lip quivers a fraction when she listens, and that’s already about killing me. A tiny, well-placed nose stud I hadn’t seen. I need to get the prescription on my contacts adjusted. The night vision is going a little.
“For the moment, I’m only as boring as you make me,” I shoot back at her. Tim, I want to take this opportunity to thank you for being one of the people who have consistently assisted in the witty banter department. Scintillating wit rarely fails.
“Is that a challenge?” She flushes a bit. Another lucky bit of cheese. Very good. She’s a bit of a romantic at heart. I grab her book and enjoy the worn softness of it. It’s an early edition.
“Ray Bradbury…but it’s also a classic. Not really hardcore sci-fi, so you’re probably not a dork. You could be reading it for anything. Work, school or pleasure?”
Ray Bradbury is highly underrated among the literati. Check him out Tim Meyer.
“Pleasure. And I am a dork. I was a lit major my first time around.” Three-pointer drained, nothing but net. I love it. Plus I got her to say “pleasure”. The brain is not, at all times, as complex a machine as we would fancy it. I just fired a neural network that set off a series of conscious and unconscious memories and sensations, associated with pleasure. That’s just this side of hot breath on the back of her neck. She blows at the little curlies dangling in front of her face. I love that too.
“That’s why the money hurts. I hear you. Liberal Arts degree’s hardly better than having a GED. I did journalism, with a minor in technical writing. I used to read a lot when I was younger. Don’t have much time anymore.”
Lie. I was a lit/psych major. But no one ever needs to know that. Getting me back into reading is something she can work on. A project to latch on to. Most looooove to nurture, even if on the surface it might seem otherwise. Figure out how to sow the seeds early.
“You like the book,” she queries. She likes it. A lot. She’s hoping I do. She’s busted the spine to being unreadable.
“It’s fantastic. The girl in the beginning of it that makes the fireman start questioning what he’s doing – her character’s just…striking, in that sterile world,” I say with the deep conviction of my unimportant and unstudied literary opinion. “I love the way Bradbury wrote her.” But she thinks I’m talking about her. Every word that rolls from your lips…man…they wonder about it. Make her think it’s her you’re talking about. And make it good stuff. Always.
She drinks conversation with her eyes and you almost don’t see the rest of her as you keep on talking. It’s a danger, to fall into these things. To swoon and sway. But hold on to the thought that you may very well wake up alone in the morning on any given day, and you’ll be fine. Never get too attached, old hoss. They disappear. And it is generally preferable that you, and not she, get to pull a Jimmy Hoffa act.
She chatters on about the book. I slow things down, let her noise recede to
“So what’s your excuse?” I finally ask her. She’s cautious, guarded. Keep things light, funny, no pressure. Watch to see if the eyes darken.
“Pardon?” She knows what I mean, and there are no warning signs.
“I’m waiting to go see a movie, and I wanted to get a couple drinks. Yes, I’m drinking and watching movies alone. Sad, I know. What’s your excuse?” Push a little. Assert your position.
“Why are you seeing a movie by yourself?” She sips, shifts, looks away dismissive.
There’s the so-slight hardening of the gaze we’re looking for. Beautiful sidestep Susannah, thank you for striking at the bait. Now I know not to pry, and you can continue to feel comfortable. Anonymous even. You’ve verified it’s what you want. My black tshirt is slick against my taut body, and I know why she’s recrossing her legs, her third glass of wine lending even more heat to her blushed cheeks. She does not intend for this to be a lasting encounter. She’s in need something less chaste.
I highly recommend working out before you go out. It optimizes and cleans out your body, makes your clothes fit better, and you look healthier. Sweat clears your pores so they can more readily release pheromones. Plus you’ll be more limber, if and when you choose to bump uglies.
If they don’t want to give out any info, but they’re still smiling and nodding when you talk, you’ve probably snagged yourself an extreme short-termer. If they’re not answering your obvious get-to-know-you questions, they’ve either got something to hide, or they just want to borrow you for the night. That S word really haunts the fringes, even for the enlightened ones. If you’re someone she can talk to about herself, then you might potentially be someone special to her. The less of any type of attachment she makes to you, the less she’ll feel like that S word. Funny how that works. For me it’s just the opposite. But I’m certainly of the opinion that I can get to know someone pretty well in a single night. I think lots of men are that way. It’s the rare woman who’s that comfortable. At least here in the US. As you well know, mon ami, outside our American Puritanical confines are an entirely different landscapes. Europe and beyond are whole other projects, too ambitious for the likes of me.
There’s a question to answer. Try not to lose threads of conversation. I know I personally have a hard time keeping focused. Hold onto things she says, reference them later. Then she’ll know, by god, what she says is important to you.
But most importantly, stay on top of that conversation. It’s no good to drift off.
“I got this habit of going alone when I worked as a movie reviewer on the college paper. I’m sort of ridiculous about it. I collect all my ticket stubs.” That was fucking true. Shit. But something else she can work on, if she likes movies. Most women think that’s sad (be careful, some might consider it pathetic), going to the movies alone.
“What were you going to see,” Susannah asks with interest. Going to the movies alone actually reminds her of…her.
“They have a midnight showing of Breakfast Club down at the Arclight.”
“You’re shitting? Really?” She wants to tuck the too eager I Wanna Come words back in her mouth. Everyone anywhere near our age loves that flick. It is not showing at the Arclight tonight. God bless Hollywood, however.
“It’s some private screening. A buddy of mine gave me his ticket. It sounds pretty posh.”
“Oh, that’s exciting.” She looks ready to retreat. Just like that. She thinks I’m bailing, and it’s going through her head that I really did just want to talk about burning books and dystopian futures. She suddenly remembers to take her glasses off for effect, and reaches, but then stops realizing I hadn’t gone for her with the glasses on, and her fantasy is busted for another night, and that she’s just a loseruglyfatbitch with a tumbling hairdo, going home to an empty house again...
Not so. All in the delivery. Timing is everything.
“But…I could skip that…Susannah. ‘Cause I’d rather stick around, if you’re going to be here. We could stay here. Rent the movie. Drive to the beach. Whatever you’d like. Molly Ringwald will be a teenager forever.”
She kills the last of the wine in a swift gulp. Calculated. She can drink. The glasses come off. Yeah, she likes the black tshirt. But still there’s hesitation…she looks at me wondering, wondering how, so quickly, she could possibly trust me. What is it that’s going to make it okay, and safe, to allow me into her own domain in the short matter of an hour or two of knowing me?
“What are we going to do?” She’s seriously considering this question.
“I’m not sure. There’s plenty to get up to in this town.”
Aw shiiiit, I have an answer. Providence is working for us here. Fate and Luck want you to share in this little Furburger Helper I’m cooking up for you. Tim, I told you normally it wasn’t this easy. I dig into my bag, and pull out my own book.
“Hey, I almost forgot about this. Kind of funny, actually. Have you ever read this one,” and I hand it to her. It’s Something Wicked This Way Comes, another Bradbury gem I had buried in my man-bag. Perfectly timed, perfectly suggestive…absolutely perfect. How ridiculous is that? But it’s going to close the discussion. We like to read the same kind of stuff. For readers, sharing tastes is usually a very intimate connection.
“No. I think I’ve seen the movie,” she replies, visibly(drunkenly) upset at not having read it.
“Take it. Some of the best nostalgia money can buy.”
And she knows now this meeting was no mere accident. That the gods have express-mailed her a new chance…someone she could dive into. She only wants a night, though now she knows she could be happy and comfortable for a long time with me. By sheer accident, I have chosen my props well this evening. Well, it was actually by the smell. There’s a certain smell in the air, more back in St. Louis, but still here in California too, that tells me when it’s time to read Something Wicked. It doesn’t hurt to be reminded, at least once a year, of the deliciously terrifying imagination of a twelve-year old boy looking in dark corners for dark things.
“If you want, we can rent the Breakfast Club, and go to my place,” the suggestion in her voice thrums at a different timbre now. Here it comes. Her roommate(exboyfriend) is out of town. We can do as we like.
“My roommate’s out of town. So we can get a bottle of something and do whatever we want. It’s getting a little late to go anywhere else, anyway.” She’s already got it in the bag. There’s no need to stretch for it, I want to tell her. It’s only 11 PM Most nights I don’t start this early. But that’s okay, I’ll cut her some slack. She’s clearly out of practice.
There will be a locked “bedroom” door in her apartment. It’ll be the office/study, where some of his boxes still linger. She wouldn’t be taking me home if the wound wasn’t fairly fresh. She’d want me to take her out, or maybe come to my HQ. Tonight she wants to drink and fuck his stink off the place.
Turns out the bottle is not a bottle of wine, but a bottle of Patron. There’s nothing better than someone that will party like you do. We don’t bother getting the movie. But I do remember the limes. Limes are important.
Tim, when you go into a place, in this situation, look to the deadbolt. If there is a deadbolt, be sure it gets thrown. In a breakup, the doorknob key is often left with the displaced person in case there’s a need to leave only the knob locked so the departed party can get in, while the person who stayed is hiding at a coffee shop or bar somewhere. So don’t just get the knob. Throw the bolt.
The deadbolt is considerably more solid against a few more moments of battering. If there isn’t one, sleep lightly or not at all, ‘cause he can get in real easy. The night a fresh freedwoman decides to move on, assume the ex will show up drunk and belligerent – this has always been a statistically significant probability. If and when this screed begins to turn things in your direction, learn to fight. You may end up getting your ass beat, but at least you won’t have gotten rudely stomped. Even getting one punch in for every five of his counts on the personal Pride-o-Meter.
Upon further consideration, keep to your laps around the track as well. Running away has never failed me.
When your intention is to dissect a person, you ask yourself cause and effect questions. A person is comprised only of his or her experiences. There is little to nothing else (depending on your spiritual disposition anyway), outside that neural network that informs their response mechanisms. Personality typing can be helpful, but ultimately it doesn’t mean shit. Astrology is more telling than you’d think, but still useless. (Take a crash course regardless; the percentage that know their astrology is ridiculous.) Only the eye for detail can achieve what we aspire to.
Everyone’s got a specific set of instances they connect with love, hate, sex, male, female, desire, attraction, rejection, revulsion, etc. Your game is henceforth Connect the Dots. You can’t stereotype, generalize, or typify. It will never work when seeking out rare quarry. And if you ever forget that they’re people, and not just these details, well, then you’re even worse than me. We’ve no right to pick anyone’s locks, unless they’re getting something in return for what we take. Even if it’s not equal. But that doesn’t really matter. What’s valuable to us is not necessarily valuable to them.
Draw lines from the too-white crosstrainers in the corner to a dusty bike in the entryway of her apartment, to the gym membership on her keychain. Peruse her ripe, but not even close to oversized ass, and you have an idle to moderate weight watcher. The best kind. They whine the least and are easygoing about their bodies. The chubbiers ones often don’t want to fuck with the light on. The fit ones cringe away when you touch them certain places. Such circumstances do little for the libido.
The fanatics and the lazy, though both irritating, do have their uses. A fanatic can be made to feel good with minimal effort, as long as you’re careful not to fuck up and do the opposite. This makes life easy. Plus, they’re oftentimes a first class lay. There is much to be said for a girl who knows how to run an elliptical machine. Alternately, a lazy one can be connived all the time into staying behind as you do other “active” things. These girls’ confidence can also be shattered to useful effect, whereas the fit girls will usually just go apeshit.
Draw lines from physically confident Susannah, from our inferred ease with her body, to former athleticism and/or sexual experience. Most people, to be comfortable with their bodies, usually know how to use them for something. If she moves easy, there’s a reason. Foreknowledge of prior sexual experience can often lead to quickly gratifying some of your more esoteric desires, knowing you might not have to step as lightly around them. Sexual confidence often translates to personal confidence, which can mean a less demanding, more emotionally satisfying and evenly keeled relationship, should you decide to take it to a second date. If you like that sort of thing.
Depends for me. You know that. Once upon a time, you didn’t get a second date unless you were a mess. I needed to know that it would be a hell of a ride.
I get the notion Susannah isn’t terribly messy, as I enter her apartment. Sleekly modest, almost stark furnishings form contrast to her bright and biting personality.
Occasionally impetuous, perhaps, bringing someone like me home, but not troubled in the head. And that’s all right. As far as I’m concerned, I’m done with the crazies anyway. I’ve kept tabs. About one in four to five have been bugshit whack jobs. As a good man named Lowery I once knew used to say, “Bitches is crazy.” Check yourself homeslice. You will get your shit fucked up, son. None of which is to say I blame the poor ladies for their eventual treachery, or don’t sympathize with them. You’ll deserve it.
The following rumination is all aside from the acknowledgement of the required chemicals that promote and support childbirth and already justify occasionally inexplicable female moments:
Civilations haven’t yet geared themselves toward what’s going on inside the female species. It’s way too much. They’ve got more DNA to sort out than we do. They’ve watched us slaughter their children since time out of mind. Plus, they’re in the process of evolving to dominance, as nature and the Y chromosome conspire to put an end to the tragedy Man, and his hero the Conqueror Worm. The genes that make up males are falling off that one differing chromosome, lessening generation by generation. Our gender is genetically disintegrating. Eventually, male won’t be an option, unless the women want us to be.
I’d replace me with a vibrator.
Females are coming to literal, physical, spiritual dominance in an across-the-board patriarchy (an ascension which creates problems in and of itself), because their outlook is more conducive to preventing total disruption of our ecosystems. Of our economies. Of our lives. Men are the slashers and burners, biting the hand that feeds. This is Darwinism at its most sublime – the earth, life, evolution, creation itself, all much higher in the food chain than Man, has begun to strike down the upstart to put the whole organism back into balance.
All of which conspires to straitjacket a woman…any time, any day. They are much more the victims and the conquerors of their emotions and bodies than we are. It’s simply part of their biology. While most days, we can trudge numbly through our existence, for almost all women, the most regular of days have been miracles to get through without lashing out, breaking down, or dying from the sheer joy of it. You must take this into consideration. You must raise your sensitivity level to hone in on their sensitivity level. It is in this way that you can almost always manipulate or avoid the situation, all to your advantage.
I make my way quickly to the bathroom. Always do this, first time in a woman’s territory. You can catch her half-naked, in a sense, if she wasn’t necessarily expecting to bring someone home. You may see various products, prescriptions, unguents, etc, all of which can give you an idea of what’s going on. Make sure you know which antiobiotics and beyond that fight VD. Check the trashcan to see if there’s female sanitary debris on top, first thing, so you know what you’re dealing with. Is the toilet seat up? Piss on the porcelain rim? You always want to be aware of a potential male. Look in the medicine cabinet, for sure. Is there Valtrex, Monistat, Ortho Tri-Cyclin, Xanax, Lithium (ran into it once, I swear, but she was a bit older), Ritalin, Zoloft, Paxil, Wellbutrin? www.webmd.com is all I’ve got to say about that. The appearance of any number of medications, depending on your mood, can be a definite indication to GET THE FUCK OUT if necessary.
I scored tonight. Bras all over the bathroom. She had a hard time deciding. Which means it’s probably nice underneath. Trashcan points to probably not on the rag. A HUGE bottle of Percocet just sitting there, begging, and two go down the hatch. Wine and tequila (a bad mix to start), might make three painkillers one too many. My night’s about to get real smooth. She also has no anti-depressants in the cabinet. Bonus. Hopefully they’re not in her purse.
I see that she whitens her teeth, uses good hair products, has a clean privy, and maintains regular dental hygiene. Floss in the trashcan. The Virgin Mary would be proud to take a pizzle in here. What we have here Tim, unless I’m mistaken, is a perfectly normal, sane, healthy young lady, maybe even stricken with a touch of OCD in the clean department. Just the specimen I was shooting for, for this intro. We’ll visit some of the more difficult cases later in our study.
“You’re doing a shot with me,” she calls out. Here’s the kind of girl I used to write about in my adolescence. As I burgeoned into…well, let’s be honest, my madness…I dreamt of women who could keep pace, who could play quarters and horseshoes like one of the boys, and fuck till dawn. And yet, they could dance, or prance, or sing real pretty. Hard on the outside, gooey on the inside, just like me. Just like everybody, right?
Yeah…that was back when you and I both still had some illusions.
“You know…you’re getting me to break my own rules. I don’t usually get drunk with strangers. Strangers are not good people.” That’s a bullshit lie. I get drunk with strange motherfuckers all the time. But it’s all about making her experience unique. She’s one of a kind. Each one. Every time.
“Not even sensuous, mysterious strangers?” She’s being facetious, thankfully. Playacting the role of the drunken one-night stand. I hate it when flirtation hits too high a blood/alcohol ratio, and becomes painfully laughable. About as arousing as your grandmother’s centerfold in this month’s issue of Juggs.
The apartment is littered with the fiddle-faddle of a few days’ laziness. A cozy aura, in spite of the Spartan design. A place I could get comfortable.
“You know I was just thinking that Cat in the Hat poster speaks volumes of mystery,” I reply. It actually looks stylish, well-framed, to her credit. The couch and love seat are these low slung black faux leather deals with reflective tube framing on the outside, and sharp squared-off edges. Circular glass sidetables supported by similar tubing topped with a 5X7 each, one black and white of an old farmhouse, the other in Kodacolor circa 1974, of a deflating hot air balloon on the ground.
The coffee table is a chunk of rectangular, rough-edged glass seated on four flat black rocks. Under the table is a thick-looped burgundy rug. There is no television. The ex either took it, or she removed it after he left. From the size of her bookshelf, I’d guess it was the latter, ‘cause it looks like she got to keep everything else. Probably bought it herself. Probably why she asked me about my job right off the bat. He was a deadbeat.
The rest of the apartment (though I haven’t yet seen her bedroom) isn’t necessarily anything to speak of, but this living room whispers serenity. She’s someone who understands and appreciates the potential solemnity and calming effect of a room. One might infer then, she possesses an appreciation for the sacred, whatever her sacred may be. This is something you can play on, if you aim beyond this evening. Consider fucking there. In the living room. Really violate the space.
If it’s sacred, it’ll be a rush.
If you feel that an evening must needs continue unquestionably, you should have at least two objects in your possession that you will feel comfortable leaving behind. You should prepare this ahead of time, in case you’re feeling extra lonely before you go out, you know, like you need to talk to someone or something, and you’re for sure going to want to go for more than one date. My preferred plants are necklaces and or anklets, used books, and/or a shred of paper with some obscure, non-romantic, but damn good poem inscribed upon it. If you’re good enough to write your own, do it. Otherwise, scour a poetry anthology from Scandinavia or something. Just try to make sure she won’t recognize it.
These are items I have found most women feel obliged to return, regardless of whether they planned on seeing you again or not. The necklace or anklet could always be sentimental, and the poem could very well be your own. Many couldn’t let an original piece become hers and hers alone, if you’re an actual talent. In this way, you will supply yourself with another chance to take another angle. This doesn’t apply for everyone. Make the jewelry disposable. Don’t be attached to the book if you leave one. Some see through the plots and ploys, and keep your stuff, ‘cause there are some, though few, who are out there having fun too.
And fun is what it’s supposed to be. We do the shots of Patron. They slide down easy. The difference between lowly cactus piss, and fine tequila, is about the space between Reno and Vegas.
We’ll get to Vegas, Tim Meyer, we’ll get to Vegas. You’re almost finished biding your time in the service of our esteemed nation. Your goals are in sight, enlistment almost up, and Debauchery and I (I’m letting him crash on the couch till you get here.), await your return. I have an overwhelmingly gay desire to sing “Hold On For One More Day” this very moment.
She asks me why I’m living in LA and I tell her that the weather here is where it’s at. And that I’m secretly a down-and-out hack freelance writer, just like every other jackass in this town. I ask her where she’s from, and it’s Iowa. Some no-name bohunk town in our beloved Midwest.
The hack writer thing is true. Still waiting on my next fucking assignment.
We play twenty more questions, her prior hesitations wiped away with blue agave. The Percocet are loosing themselves waves, and these overtures are easier to play as the liquidity of my thoughts ripples outward. Dab a droplet of tequila from her lip, reach out and touch her hand briefly as we discuss whatever new book it was that we were both supposed to love, and the locks begin to make that clicking I’m looking for, her shoulders loosening. We sit on her super-cool sofa.
She’s here because she took a lot of drama class. Because it’s not Iowa. Because her collection of movies (equal to her books apparently…television must be in her bedroom…), always seemed better than summers riding in horse shows and doing dance class, which she never got very good at. Hollywood is where things happen, so that’s where she went.
Except Hollywood turned out to be dirty and cold, even in spite of the weather. And they make the movies behind walls she can’t climb over. Behind doors under which her screenplay won’t fit. Because she hasn’t finished it. Because it’s 300 pages long now. Because everybody has a fucking screenplay.
And because the palm trees always looked so cool in Beverly Hills 90210.
They do look cool. I’ll support that assertion.
I wonder how many women in this place have told me a near exact replica of that tale. I don’t know if I could count. Then again, I may just have an inner magnet for Midwestern ingénues. Regardless, a place like this…you have to find out how to be someone, or you start turning into everyone.
We talk about high school, and how things had more clarity back then. Before freedom began to be something we vaguely acknowledge the President pontificating about, rather than something we spend our time looking for. High school was all about straining toward escape. We are both able to lament what we have escaped into.
It’s not hard to see why she’s yearning for that pre-lapserian state from those few sweet years before prom. Erase this stark and empty apartment, put her back where stuffed animals were okay to have in bed, and boys were just boys and not predators, and you broke up with them long before they could ever cheat on you. Put her back where being popular, and not finding oneself, was the concern. It was easier that way, when Saturday night meant exploration, and you could come back with more and more every weekend, instead of losing pieces of yourself each monotonous day.
Childhood haunts infest each of us. Places where it would be easier to be, than here. Exploit them. Make up stories about yourself, as you go, that mirror hers. Being able to share something from that most sacred of times can superglue us to another person. It’s an easy fishhook. Watch for it, and cast that sucker straight for the lips, when you can. Yeah, those lips.
Her knee touches mine of its own accord. And stays. Van Gogh decorates her kitchen. Hints of Paris here and there in the decor. She may speak French. I recommend picking up the basics in a few languages, most notably Spanish, Italian, French, German, and Latin. Latin helps with everything. Abroad, and at home, there is always something overtly attractive about someone who’s multilingual. Even if it’s just a little.
It’s a black lace thong. She hasn’t been careful with that short little skirt. If you do this often enough, you’ll get to the point where you notice the change in the breathing pace, you’ll feel her heart beating faster in your temples, and even the scent from both mouths will somehow become more viscous, vital.
Grip her arm at the elbow, forceful, lean her in, slide to the hand, gentle, breathe for a moment, give her the option to recoil for a split second, and then attend to your business. I find a mix of controlling and softer caressing movements will generally produce the desired results. Let her feel held, but not trapped. At least until that breaking point, when you whistle in your pal, ol’ Buck Wild. Everyone wants to be FUCKED. Sometimes they just don’t realize it right away. You have to coax it out. And only let Buck do his business when it’s right.
The first few moments are all about establishing boundaries, of which you, naturally, have none. So you pretend her boundaries are your boundaries, and that’s what you’ll respect. You have to be subtle, feeling it out. We are now in the limbo between science and art, and I can give no more than your instincts will afford you.
I can tell you that often, cupping your hands under her jaw early on, and drawing her in gently for a passionate finish will render her much more under your finesse. Convince her of your sincerity, your commitment to the moment, and your overweening lust for her. This way, you’re less likely to be deterred by abrupt regrets or blunt refusals to go beyond that certain point when she realizes she’s might be nothing but a moist and toasty bun for Mr. Meyer's wiener.
No one, in their heart of hearts, is capable of believing that relinquishing control and “chasteness” to a true moment of passion will render their moral character in question. Our endorphins are too powerful in their persuasion for that to happen. Use the chemicals. While you kiss her, run your hand up the outside edge of her thigh. Remain only suggestive at first. The word is coax, not cram. Touch innocent spots that might be good ones. The back of her neck, behind her ears, elbow and knee pits, crook of the neck, collarbone, shoulders, etc. Be patient with your own sense of urgency. Be sensitive to how she moves, which way she turns, if she squirms away when you touch a part she may be uncomfortable with. The point, in all of this, is to develop a quick physical rapport.
You want it to seem like you already know her body better than she does.
It is in this way that you will open her up, and potentially bring her back to find out what else you know. Only by creating the opportunity can you become skilled in the first place, so do everything you can to teach your fingers and your tongue the necessary talents when you have your chances. I haven’t had too many say No to such extended attentions.
Index and middle finger insertion with thumb on clit is a fairly solid approach, but even that is a skill in and of itself. It’s difficult to teach the thumb not to be a barbarian at that angle. Yes, they’ll want it rough, but only after you’ve reminded them. That might take a little while. Gentle, light, feathery, these fill their skin to the brim, get them spasming and begging and moaning, because it’s all such an agonizingly wonderful tease. I’m sure you’ve encountered a tease before Tim. It’s exquisite, until left unfulfilled. Make use of that exquisite, and then deliver on the deal. If she’s taken you this far into her sanctum, she deserves an orgasm, even if you don’t get to rock out with your cock out just yet. Unless she makes it perfectly clear, leave it up to her to take your pants off. That places all the responsibility squarely in her hands.
You almost always have shitty prior experiences on your side, if you’re doing things right. And you won’t believe the points you’ll get for not immediately trying to impale her. As much as you despise those meatheads who so undeservedly get laid, that you talked about in your last missive, they’re out there making things easier for us. I’ve known women who haven’t gotten more than five minutes of oral action from a man in their entire lives. I expect at least half an hour or more on a blowjob for it to even begin to approach acceptable. Little things, mon ami, little things.
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