Ironic, really. I'd just spent the morning monkeying around Edinburgh, and I'd bought a book on philosophy and a new copy of Neil Strauss's The Game, having given my original away as a present to a clueless chum. It was still early afternoon, so I dropped in to a pub I used to work at on Edinburgh's Royal Mile. I bumped into a friend of mine, Richard, who is a natural player of real talent and panache, and we sat outside at a table, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer and shooting the ****.
A couple, Daniel and Sarah (friends of Richard), sat with us, and after a while the topic turned to the books I was reading. The book on philosophy drew the predictable derisive accusations of pretention, which in all fairness I agree with. Most books on modern philosophy are only useful if you're fresh out of toilet paper, so we all had a chuckle about that.
Then Richard started ripping on me for reading The Game. He'd never read it (and in all fairness he doesn't need to), and in classic alpha style he starts trying to belittle me in an amusing and charming way over these "tricks" and "techniques" that I'm allegedly into. I don't even remotely rise to it, I just talk about Strauss, Mystery, and the story of the book. I also talked, lightly but genuinely about how it changed my life, which it did. I spoke briefly about the kind of guy I was a year ago when I'd walked away from a relationship I really cared about with an awesome girl. I explained that it was because I knew that the attraction, the electricity - whatever name you want to stick to that spark of magic that had drawn us together in the first place - had gone and I had no idea how to bring it back. All I could do was jump, before I was pushed. Sometimes I still miss her, but I didn't tell them that. I never tell anyone that.
I mentioned in passing about how I'd sworn to myself that I'd never walk away from someone I loved again, but I had no idea how to beat the insecurities with women that had dogged me my whole life. Then I read The Game.
Richard's comments on routines also didn't bother me because I personally find the free-form, genuine and sexually expressive ideas of Juggler and Gunwitch to be far more in tune with my personality. All this time, I'm just being open. I'm just being genuine. I don't give a **** what they think. Nonetheless, I decide to have a chuckle and start telling them about Style's Dual Induction Massage routine. At this point, Daniel perks up. Even Richard looks interested, and a flash of playerish respect whispers across his chiseled face for Strauss's manipulative genius.
Sarah starts to get stroppy, not at me - she's smiling at me - but at her boyfriend who's getting altogether too excited at the possibility of engineering a threesome with two random girls.
All this time, the beautiful sound of girlish laughter is rising from the table next to me. Whoever they are they're having fun. I don't look around. There's no need to. Not yet.
Sarah stands to leave, and she squeezes my hand slightly as she shakes it. I nod imperceptibly, and then give Daniel a megawatt smile and a handshake. He returns my grip, oblivious. They leave.
Richard's also heading off, and I'm not going to stop him. I have work to do.
So there I am. Sitting in the smoking area. Socially proofed by three friends, but now alone with my book. The book makes me look normal. Intellectual even, if you believe women read that far into things. But then of course, I'm not reading. I'm listening.
Every now and then, an opener is handed to you on a plate. It's so easy. It's not just an opening line, but also a chance to demonstrate some real personality, humour and worth. There are four hot American girls. One of them is talking about Blackadder.
"No," One of them says, "It's the funniest show ever!"
I turn around.
"Are you talking about Blackadder?" I ask.
"Yeah." The girl says. She's pretty. Grungy, a bit of a rock chick. Looks like Lori Petty from Tank Girl.
"I ****ing love Blackadder. How the hell do you know about it? You're American." Please God, I think - let her not be Canadian...
"My mom watches it - she's got all the scripts and everything." Thank ****.
"****ing cool." I turn to the group, to the chick who Tank Girl was originally talking to. "Blackadder," I continue, "is a comedy series from the 90's - it's written by Richard Curtis, the guy who wrote Four Weddings and a Funeral."
"Oh," She says. She had no idea.
"Yeah. It's brilliant, but the first series was a bit crap. Blackadder's character was a bit of a clown, but he turns into the most acerbic, sarcastic bastard in the second series. He's brilliant." Tank Girl perks up.
"That's exactly what I was going to say!" She says, brightly.
Houston, we have lift off. We're talking about Blackadder, swapping impressions and jokes, going into general comedy chat. It's all pure gold. We go inside. We drink. We talk about porn. We go outside for more cigarettes. I give the girls alone time for a chat every now and then when I'm getting indicators of interest from one of more of them so they can all have a girly giggle about how hot I am.
After a while two of the girls leave. I pull them both in for a hug, and they love it. They go, after telling me that they'll be in X bar tonight and I should really be there. I'm left with Tank Girl, and a pretty blonde chick who I discover is half Italian, half Native American Indian. Nice. I shall hereafter refer to her as Pocahontas.
So were chatting, and one of them makes a wisecrack about something. We all laugh.
"Aw ****, you girls are lovely. I'm really glad I randomly started talking to you." I say.
This is good ****. In a one-on-one with a chick, or in a group when you get them laughing, when you sense that they're happy you can roll this **** out. Technically (in Style-speak) it's a way to force, and to make explicit, a hook point. It's like using crampons to climb a mountain. It doesn't really matter how they respond either. They don't have to come back with a compliment - although they will if you've gauged it right - as long as you're not phased by them not telling you you're cool in return, they'll feel guilty when you just keep on talking. They'll feel guilty because you show that you weren't trying to play them, you were just being genuinely nice. They'll definitely tell you you're cool the next time you tell them you're glad you spoke to them. If you gauge it right, that is. Just make sure you mean it. It makes all the difference.
They look very slightly taken aback, but then Tank Girl picks up the ball and runs with it.
"You too," she replies "absolutely. You seem like a really cool guy. The only guys we've met here have been really sleazy or weird. You're just really cool. Isn't he cool?"
"Sure, he's great" says Pocahontas.
You can just say thanks to a compliment, or you can be ****y. But the best thing I've ever found is to really, genuinely take compliments to heart. It feels good, for one thing. It helps your self-esteem. It shows you're not invulnerable for another thing- it shows you're human without being a big *****. It creates a real and powerful emotional connection with people. Finally, if someone senses that they've given a compliment and someone is really impressed with it, they usually elaborate on it. This is brilliant. The following I said in a level-headed, non-gushy but totally genuine way. Because it was genuine. I meant it all.
"That's really, really nice of you to say. Thanks. That means a lot to me. You have no idea."
"No, I mean it. You're fantastic," says Tank Girl. "You're funny, you're cool, you're great fun." She's beaming at me.
"Yeah, really" says Pocahontas. She smiles at me, and drops her eyelids ever so slightly.
"**** girls, that's lovely. You're both so ****ing sweet. I could eat you both up. Come here." We have a three way hug. I kiss them both on the cheeks.
Every now and then, Tank Girl has been dropping little clues about her being a lesbian. I don't rise to it. She mentions this girl she kissed, and I act like she's talking about the weather. Eventually she comes out with it – in fact, she comes out. We've been talking for about 3 hours now from the Blackadder approach. She apologises about not telling me earlier (?) but explains she didn't want to freak me out (?), offend my sense of morality (?) or scare me off (?) because she was enjoying my company and she wasn't sure how I'd react.
Just a word to the Yanks reading this. What the ****? Are you mad? Why is this hot lesbian chick afraid to tell guys she likes *****? Why does she think I'll get moralistic on her ass? Do you do that? What the ****? Why does she think I'll get scared? Are you scared of hot lesbians? What the ****? What are you saying to your hot lesbians? What the **** is wrong with you people?
Anyway. I clearly don't give a **** and I tell her as much. In fact, I tell her that I wouldn't know where to begin to give a **** if you gave me a roadmap to give-a-**** City Central and a really compelling reason to go. She then tells me that she has a girlfriend. I get the sense that this is bait, so I don't let my disappointment show in my face. What can I tell you – I want this chick. I love Tank Girl. Lori Petty is hot. But the bait is out, and I feel like a bug under a microscope - like I'm being subtly examined by both chicks for any sense of neediness. I show none. Poker-face-tastic. After a few minutes more of banter she lets slip that her girlfriend doesn't mind her playing with other people when she's on vacation as long as they tell each other. Once more my poker face comes into play, and I just about restrain myself from punching the air and doing an Irish jig. Pocahontas says that she's single, and she hasn't got laid in ages. Once more, I stop myself, and don't do a cartwheel.
A couple, Daniel and Sarah (friends of Richard), sat with us, and after a while the topic turned to the books I was reading. The book on philosophy drew the predictable derisive accusations of pretention, which in all fairness I agree with. Most books on modern philosophy are only useful if you're fresh out of toilet paper, so we all had a chuckle about that.
Then Richard started ripping on me for reading The Game. He'd never read it (and in all fairness he doesn't need to), and in classic alpha style he starts trying to belittle me in an amusing and charming way over these "tricks" and "techniques" that I'm allegedly into. I don't even remotely rise to it, I just talk about Strauss, Mystery, and the story of the book. I also talked, lightly but genuinely about how it changed my life, which it did. I spoke briefly about the kind of guy I was a year ago when I'd walked away from a relationship I really cared about with an awesome girl. I explained that it was because I knew that the attraction, the electricity - whatever name you want to stick to that spark of magic that had drawn us together in the first place - had gone and I had no idea how to bring it back. All I could do was jump, before I was pushed. Sometimes I still miss her, but I didn't tell them that. I never tell anyone that.
I mentioned in passing about how I'd sworn to myself that I'd never walk away from someone I loved again, but I had no idea how to beat the insecurities with women that had dogged me my whole life. Then I read The Game.
Richard's comments on routines also didn't bother me because I personally find the free-form, genuine and sexually expressive ideas of Juggler and Gunwitch to be far more in tune with my personality. All this time, I'm just being open. I'm just being genuine. I don't give a **** what they think. Nonetheless, I decide to have a chuckle and start telling them about Style's Dual Induction Massage routine. At this point, Daniel perks up. Even Richard looks interested, and a flash of playerish respect whispers across his chiseled face for Strauss's manipulative genius.
Sarah starts to get stroppy, not at me - she's smiling at me - but at her boyfriend who's getting altogether too excited at the possibility of engineering a threesome with two random girls.
All this time, the beautiful sound of girlish laughter is rising from the table next to me. Whoever they are they're having fun. I don't look around. There's no need to. Not yet.
Sarah stands to leave, and she squeezes my hand slightly as she shakes it. I nod imperceptibly, and then give Daniel a megawatt smile and a handshake. He returns my grip, oblivious. They leave.
Richard's also heading off, and I'm not going to stop him. I have work to do.
So there I am. Sitting in the smoking area. Socially proofed by three friends, but now alone with my book. The book makes me look normal. Intellectual even, if you believe women read that far into things. But then of course, I'm not reading. I'm listening.
Every now and then, an opener is handed to you on a plate. It's so easy. It's not just an opening line, but also a chance to demonstrate some real personality, humour and worth. There are four hot American girls. One of them is talking about Blackadder.
"No," One of them says, "It's the funniest show ever!"
I turn around.
"Are you talking about Blackadder?" I ask.
"Yeah." The girl says. She's pretty. Grungy, a bit of a rock chick. Looks like Lori Petty from Tank Girl.
"I ****ing love Blackadder. How the hell do you know about it? You're American." Please God, I think - let her not be Canadian...
"My mom watches it - she's got all the scripts and everything." Thank ****.
"****ing cool." I turn to the group, to the chick who Tank Girl was originally talking to. "Blackadder," I continue, "is a comedy series from the 90's - it's written by Richard Curtis, the guy who wrote Four Weddings and a Funeral."
"Oh," She says. She had no idea.
"Yeah. It's brilliant, but the first series was a bit crap. Blackadder's character was a bit of a clown, but he turns into the most acerbic, sarcastic bastard in the second series. He's brilliant." Tank Girl perks up.
"That's exactly what I was going to say!" She says, brightly.
Houston, we have lift off. We're talking about Blackadder, swapping impressions and jokes, going into general comedy chat. It's all pure gold. We go inside. We drink. We talk about porn. We go outside for more cigarettes. I give the girls alone time for a chat every now and then when I'm getting indicators of interest from one of more of them so they can all have a girly giggle about how hot I am.
After a while two of the girls leave. I pull them both in for a hug, and they love it. They go, after telling me that they'll be in X bar tonight and I should really be there. I'm left with Tank Girl, and a pretty blonde chick who I discover is half Italian, half Native American Indian. Nice. I shall hereafter refer to her as Pocahontas.
So were chatting, and one of them makes a wisecrack about something. We all laugh.
"Aw ****, you girls are lovely. I'm really glad I randomly started talking to you." I say.
This is good ****. In a one-on-one with a chick, or in a group when you get them laughing, when you sense that they're happy you can roll this **** out. Technically (in Style-speak) it's a way to force, and to make explicit, a hook point. It's like using crampons to climb a mountain. It doesn't really matter how they respond either. They don't have to come back with a compliment - although they will if you've gauged it right - as long as you're not phased by them not telling you you're cool in return, they'll feel guilty when you just keep on talking. They'll feel guilty because you show that you weren't trying to play them, you were just being genuinely nice. They'll definitely tell you you're cool the next time you tell them you're glad you spoke to them. If you gauge it right, that is. Just make sure you mean it. It makes all the difference.
They look very slightly taken aback, but then Tank Girl picks up the ball and runs with it.
"You too," she replies "absolutely. You seem like a really cool guy. The only guys we've met here have been really sleazy or weird. You're just really cool. Isn't he cool?"
"Sure, he's great" says Pocahontas.
You can just say thanks to a compliment, or you can be ****y. But the best thing I've ever found is to really, genuinely take compliments to heart. It feels good, for one thing. It helps your self-esteem. It shows you're not invulnerable for another thing- it shows you're human without being a big *****. It creates a real and powerful emotional connection with people. Finally, if someone senses that they've given a compliment and someone is really impressed with it, they usually elaborate on it. This is brilliant. The following I said in a level-headed, non-gushy but totally genuine way. Because it was genuine. I meant it all.
"That's really, really nice of you to say. Thanks. That means a lot to me. You have no idea."
"No, I mean it. You're fantastic," says Tank Girl. "You're funny, you're cool, you're great fun." She's beaming at me.
"Yeah, really" says Pocahontas. She smiles at me, and drops her eyelids ever so slightly.
"**** girls, that's lovely. You're both so ****ing sweet. I could eat you both up. Come here." We have a three way hug. I kiss them both on the cheeks.
Every now and then, Tank Girl has been dropping little clues about her being a lesbian. I don't rise to it. She mentions this girl she kissed, and I act like she's talking about the weather. Eventually she comes out with it – in fact, she comes out. We've been talking for about 3 hours now from the Blackadder approach. She apologises about not telling me earlier (?) but explains she didn't want to freak me out (?), offend my sense of morality (?) or scare me off (?) because she was enjoying my company and she wasn't sure how I'd react.
Just a word to the Yanks reading this. What the ****? Are you mad? Why is this hot lesbian chick afraid to tell guys she likes *****? Why does she think I'll get moralistic on her ass? Do you do that? What the ****? Why does she think I'll get scared? Are you scared of hot lesbians? What the ****? What are you saying to your hot lesbians? What the **** is wrong with you people?
Anyway. I clearly don't give a **** and I tell her as much. In fact, I tell her that I wouldn't know where to begin to give a **** if you gave me a roadmap to give-a-**** City Central and a really compelling reason to go. She then tells me that she has a girlfriend. I get the sense that this is bait, so I don't let my disappointment show in my face. What can I tell you – I want this chick. I love Tank Girl. Lori Petty is hot. But the bait is out, and I feel like a bug under a microscope - like I'm being subtly examined by both chicks for any sense of neediness. I show none. Poker-face-tastic. After a few minutes more of banter she lets slip that her girlfriend doesn't mind her playing with other people when she's on vacation as long as they tell each other. Once more my poker face comes into play, and I just about restrain myself from punching the air and doing an Irish jig. Pocahontas says that she's single, and she hasn't got laid in ages. Once more, I stop myself, and don't do a cartwheel.