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The Four Month Flake

Whoever says flaking doesn’t work on women has no experience giving it a go. Do you think the modern woman has so much self respect that she will balk to give a flaky man a second chance? Ha. It is to laugh. She will not only entertain the thought, she’ll eagerly anticipate the excitement such a feckless man will infuse into her dull, rudderless life.

A girl of about 27.5 years of age and glittering auburn hair tromped off a SWPL bus, (which route taken drives carefully within the confines of SWPLland, like some zoo safari jeep rumbling on paved roads behind electrified fence holding at bay a lone, bored cheetah licking his nuts a half mile away. The thrill!) I happened to be walking by with a load of bruised vegetables from the corner farmer’s market when the usual urge, normally stifled by officehive feigned sterility, propelled me to approach and gauge her buying temperature.


She snaps her head in my direction. “Hi.”

Good start so far.

“How was your ride on the Disney bus?”

Quizzically: “What?”

“The Disney bus. That’s what everyone calls it. Feels like a fun Disney ride through a magical neighborhood.”

“Wow, that’s the weirdest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

“Just today?”

“Ok, maybe this year.”

“That’s more like it.”

A pause to digest. “For your information, the ride was not so great. There was a couple arguing next to me.”

Score! Any girl who would run with this patently absurd discussion topic was the kind of girl straitjacketed by little moral or sexual restraint. “Oh, that’s too bad. Next time ask for your money back.”

We talked for ten more minutes, as it serendipitously turned out she lived two neighborhoods over. (Demarcations subject to revision without prior notice.) In a land grab of impudent proportions, I cut us short with a quick rejoinder to give me her number so we could talk another time. She keeled backward a bit, regrouped, then smiled as she read them off to me. I do not test girls’ numbers by calling or texting them on the spot; it betrays insecurity.

I didn’t call her until four months later (no need to explain the banal reasoning for my flakiness). Unsurprisingly, I got her voicemail. I spoke:

“Hi. It’s [Name redacted, or IgnatiusJReilly if you prefer]. It’s been a while since we met. Call me.”

No benefit would accrue to me by leaving a lengthy, or even not so lengthy, explanation why I waited four months to contact her. What kind of man offers excuses to a woman he has yet to sexiate? Excuses which are really camouflaged apologies — verbal blurts, as we all know, which are a defining characteristic of the beta mindset. A long-winded backstory would only present to her a platter-full of extraneous, lurid detail for her to quickly dismiss my terse entreaty as she basks in the glow of having gained hand.

A wise man feeds the hamster just enough pellet to make it hungry for more. Too little, and it remains unperturbed from its hamster ennui. Too much, and it lumbers away to sleep off a sated stupor.

As expected, she did not return my call right away. No, she waited twenty minutes.

“Wow, I’m surprised you called. You’re lucky I remember you, or I wouldn’t have called back. You were that guy from that day at [X], who said something ridiculous about [Y]?”

“Yes. And of course, I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t remember that either.”

“Four months is a long time to wait. Is that part of your game plan?”

Despite your inclination to do the opposite, it’s best to fess up the truth when you are conceding an obvious transgression on your part. The trick is to present just a hint of the truth; enough to quell her BS radar, but not so much to give her ammo to legalistically argue points of contention until her pussy has dried up like a slug under a mineralstorm of Morton’s.

“For personal reasons I won’t get into, I couldn’t call you at the time. I’ll leave it at that.”

“Guess I’ll have to accept that. So now you want to see me.”

“I hope it’s not too obvious.”

“It is. But I’ll take you up on it.”

Over drinks later, she said it was bold — even ballsy — of me to call her after four months of blowing her off. I said it required no balls at all, only desire. I told her she seemed the type to throw away the rulebook. She was pleased with this assessment.

There is a maxim somewhere in the archives. Seduction is the art of co-opting a woman’s tools of the trade, and using them against her, for a woman loves nothing more than a man who “gets it”, and what man gets it more than a man who understands that women need exactly what they dish out? Men would be well-advised to turn the tables on their quarry and flake on them every once in a while. It’s the stuff of legendary romance.


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