I was out recently with a buddy who knows of the DC blog scene and occasionally reads my blog (HIIIIIII dude!!!!). We went to a club that has a cramped basement dance floor. Very loud, very crowded, and very sweaty. This is the type of place that affords much illicit groping if that’s your bag. I didn’t go with any intention to hit on girls, or even to flirt much, so I leaned back against the bar and watched my buddy work a crowd of four chicks. As I leaned masterfully, one of the girls in the group sauntered over adjacent to me to buy herself a drink (or a timeout). I sized her up with a cocked eyebrow and a calculated frown. She was cute, early to mid 20s, long brunette hair, and short, with an ample bosom. That old notorious feeling came back again. You can’t keep the inner cad locked down for long.
I opened for the kill.
“Lemme guess. You’re with a bachelorette party.”
She winced. “Nooo! Thank god, I hate those things.”
I studied her reaction while musing to myself that perhaps a patented CH meme is getting out into general circulation. I had my opening. Finish her!
“Wow, I could have sworn you were assigned to accost men for your engaged friend. I’m relieved. Cheers.”
I suspected she was smart enough to know the word ‘accost’, and would appreciate my use of it. She stared at me blankly for a few seconds registering what I had just said. She turned her head away slowly, then whizzed right back around again to face me. I suspected correctly. She roughly grabbed my hand.
“Come out and dance with us! You do realize you’re at a dance club?”
“I don’t dance.”
“Oh, right, I forgot, men don’t like dancing.” She rolled her eyes.
“True.” She was still holding my hand. I made sure to pull away first. “You’ll have to get yourself a gay boyfriend for dancing duties.”
She laughed. “Oh, is that what they’re for?” Enough of her frame. It was time to reframe so that she was following my conversational lead.
I placed my hand on her forearm. “You don’t seem at all like the type of girl who would be happy in a place like this.” This wasn’t a line. She really wasn’t the type who normally goes to this place. Not phony enough.
“What do you mean by that?”
Reframe established. Subtle neg delivered. She was in the tingle-generating defensive crouch.
“Look around. Most of these girls are faking it. Can you fake it as well as they do? If you can, then I guess I was wrong about you.”
Remember, gentlemen, conversations with women don’t have to make logical sense. They just need to sound sexy.
She smiled and cocked her head in that way girls do when you’ve pleasantly surprised them. “Do you want a drink?”
Ah, the first real shit test. Now we were getting somewhere. Men, take note. When a girl is standing right next to you at a bar, and she asks “Do you want a drink?”, be careful! She is really asking “Will you buy us a drink?” Smart girls know how to massage this shit test so that they maintain plausible deniability.
“No, thanks.”
Passed.
“You’re not going to drink tonight??”
“No, I’m just not in the mood for a drink right now. You know, when you dance, don’t forget to twirl. Like this.” I took her hand and she happily spun around for me.
We gabbed some more while standing at the bar. Eventually, her ass gingerly found its way into my crotch and a tame simulation of bumpngrindage ensued. She liked when I moved her hair aside to kiss her neck. I liked it too. Her feminine aroma — a mix of youth, sweat, and perfume — was intoxicating. Maybe a half hour in we were making out, sometimes right in front of her friends who didn’t seem to mind at all. She must have signalled them earlier that she didn’t want or need a cockblock. But I was always sure to break it off first, and quickly, wary to ever let our lips linger locked for long. This wasn’t so much a game maneuver as a practical consideration. I didn’t want to be recognized making out with her in public.
After a short while dancing with her group, I leaned into her and told her I was going upstairs, while reaching for my coat. She looked surprised and chastened. I leaned in again and said I’d like her number, and that she should come upstairs to give it to me. I walked off.
It was a calculated move. If a girl likes you, she’ll be willing to abandon her posse to meet you at another location for continued enrapture. If this girl was on the fence even a little, she would not likely have met me upstairs like I told her to do. I only needed to wait upstairs for thirty seconds before she showed up. She smiled when she saw that I was still there.
This was a textbook seduction. It reminded me what so often makes or breaks a man’s game. It always seems to come back to this, the core principle of game, of mastery of women’s desire: Aloofness. The concept is simple, although its proper exeuction can belie its simplicity. I didn’t care that night about hooking up, or impressing girls. This cavalier nonchalance must have been exuding from my every pore, in my words and body language. Not giving a shit about the outcome — note that this is different than not giving a shit about the woman, for those of you who are too twisted in pious hate to understand the difference — is like catnip to a woman. They can’t resist it.
I realized early on that I could have pressed and taken this girl home that night. The number exchange was a mere formality. There was no need for me to stop at the number. She was into me enough for a same night close. Logistics were favorable. But I stopped myself short. It was then that I had a revelation and stumbled upon what is the greatest obstacle to a man’s success seducing women….
Guilt.
[crypto-donation-box]
