"Direct Approach "
So I have admitted it; I don’t have much skill with the pick up. I’m working on it.
My friend Dan recently handed me a book he thinks might help – “The Machiavellian's Guide to Womanizing” by Nick Casanova. A mutual friend bought it for him for Christmas. She bought me a game of Twister complete with bottle of Crisco. I'm not exactly sure what she assumes about my personal life, but needless to say, she has an interesting sense of humor.
So Nick wrote the modern man's guide to being a hound. Some of the chapters include How to Express Your Affection and Sound Sincere, Making Her Jealous, and Posing as a Foreigner. Interesting book to say the least, exactly what you think it is, albeit a little tongue in cheek. However, Nick's suggestions are printed for the sole purpose of putting someone else’s tongue there. Often.
I’m not sure I’m ready to support the outright manipulation of women (and the annihilation of my personal moral code) merely for the benefit of my loins. However, if things don’t start looking up soon (sorry for the pun), I may have to give Casanova’s recommendations some serious consideration.
I do, however, have much better luck with women picking me up, making the first moves, taking the initiative, and that’s not so bad. I actually know one guy who spent his entire romantic career without ever having to ask for a date, a kiss, sex, whatever. Although I, unfortunately, have not been quite that fortunate, many of the women in my life have in fact made the first move, and I must admit, I really do appreciate the direct approach. Get the details out of the way right up front. Women are hard enough to understand. Anything that makes it easier is a welcome change in my opinion.
Coy might be fun, but I much prefer candid. I like a girlfriend who, after a sweaty night of clubbing, turns and says to you, “So are we gonna take a shower together or what?” Talk about hanging a meatball over home plate. He got all of that pitch, folks, and this one is outta here! Sadly, the fruit usually doesn't hang quite so low. At least not in my orchard.
Author's note: I apologize for mixing metaphors there, but baseball analogies to sex are just a little overdone. I couldn't bear to add a second so I had to switch to farming. Please forgive the sudden shift in innuendo.
Aaaaanyway…
This reminds me of the most memorable and surprisingly conversation I had during a date. I asked a question about growing up in the small town of Lancaster, CA. I was out with a young (and seemingly demure) woman who spent her teenage years in that dusty, mullet-filled, primer gray El Camino town located just north of Los Angeles. So I asked her, “what the hell do you do in Lancaster for fun?” I grew up in Tucson, and it's hard for me to imagine someone suffering through a less interesting desert dweller adolescence.
Her response, delivered without a hint of sarcasm and a square look in the eye: “Get stoned and f***.”
Which, by the way, is pretty much the same thing kids do in Tucson.
I was one part appalled, one part intrigued, and totally amused. At least in my mind, she was my girlfriend right then. In the end, our relationship didn’t work out, but I still love her for being so blunt. Even when we broke up, it was that straightforward. She called me up after things began getting rocky and said, "so what's the deal, are we still dating?"
No pretense. No problem. I wish dating were always so easy.
It isn't, so I better work on my own skills. To that end, I recently received a great lesson during a visit to NYC. I received the all time, world class, best pick up line ever used on me, and it was one I never expected. And just to be clear up front, no, it didn’t work, regardless of what rumors you might have heard.
I was having dinner in a dark and trendy Mediterranean place (I wish I could remember the name of this joint) in the East Village of New York late one evening in the winter of 2001 with my cousin Francesca and a close friend of hers. The maitre d', a good-looking and flamboyantly gay man in his late twenties decided he liked my looks and spent a good portion of the night at our table flirting with me.
Hey, who can blame him? I was wearing my favorite blue jeans, a dark gray wool sweater, a black overcoat, a black beret turned backwards and black Bacco Bucci monk strap shoes on my feet. I looked damn good, and out midweek in the east village with two older women, little did I know, I must have looked damn gay.
He quickly figured it out, and asked, “You’re not gay, are you?”
"Nope, not even a little", I replied. I may have had some pretty bad dating experiences, but I'm not ready to defect. I dig girls. I don't expect that to change any time soon, nor do I expect to suddenly find myself perusing the "bi-curious" 900 numbers advertised in the back of OC Weekly. I have a lifetime membership to the procreation party.
He, however, was undaunted. He smiled and with a wink said, “Don’t worry, the first time, doesn’t make you gay”.
We all laughed so hard we nearly fell out of our chairs.
I suppose that's what sets apart the best pick up artist. The ability to be charming in the absolute worst conditions. Having enough charisma, and the presence of mind to know how and when to use it, the knock down even the strongest social barriers. His method, had I been a member of his preferred sexual orientation, would have been a model for a successful, direct pick up. Despite all the social, sexual, hell even *biological* obstacles in his way, I have to admit, he totally charmed me.
And again, just to be clear, I said he charmed me. He did not, repeat, NOT, charm the pants off me.
