People calling me a date-rapist. An asshole. Every woman’s nightmare.

I know, because I sat up late one night and read every single one.

I deserved them. I knew that. Hell, I agreed with most of them.

I knew where I’d gone wrong.

And I knew I never wanted to make a mistake like that again.

It’s amazing how quickly a paradigm shift can take place, once the pieces are in place.

And, after months of flailing in the dark, how suddenly a moment of clarity can strike.

I knew the score: just like what had happened with Steph, I’d screwed up. I’d let my ego take over, been intoxicated by power, and now, all I could do was take my lumps, accept what I’d done, and hopefully learn something from the experience. I’d hurt people. Women I barely knew. Women I knew well.  One of my best friends. My journey had taken me to some dark, unsavoury places, and, in sharing the depths of those experiences, I’d become a lightning-rod for public anger. It’s not like I was the first person to ever get carried away, or behave callously, or look for a magic bullet for dating. I’d just happened to explore my experiences in a public arena.

It was proof that the old adage still held true: Don’t kiss and tell.

And, unfortunately, I’d done both.

What was actually more alarming, though, were those vocal and stupid enough to jump to my defense; the kind of people I had, in my foolishness, been trying to emulate. These idiots walking around, calling themselves “Ladies’ Men,” defending to the death my right to walk around treating people like crap for no good reason. Those men you so often saw in clubs and restaurants, obsessed with getting their “body-count” as high as they could, with hitting that 23-average I’d read about so long ago, turning their masculinity into nothing more than a numbers game, a game that could have just as easily been soccer, or hockey, or Call of fucking Duty for all they cared, but instead of kills or points, they were racking up something altogether different.

And, for a few short days, I’d been one of them.

I spent those two, shitstorming weeks holed-up in my apartment.

During that time, I was in nothing but a daze, a constant zombie-state of working, commuting, sleeping. Eating ice-cream straight from the container. Sitting in my underwear, taking bong-hits, watching awful movies on surfthechannel.com.

I called Leon, and apologized.

I called Brittany, and did the same.

Hell, I even called DJ StrangeLove.

Told him I was sorry. That we hadn’t left things on a good note. Asked to meet, and sort things out. Told him that, for what it was worth, I couldn’t have done it without him.

And so it was, that a year and three weeks after it had all begun, we met at a small cafe downtown, for what would turn out to be the final time.

He sat across from me, slumped over a black coffee, hair greasy, eyes rimmed by dark circles. It had been some time since I’d properly seen him: The man who’d laid the groundwork for my journey. The man who’d been my mentor, my wingman, my arch-nemesis. The man reputed to have a body-count in the hundreds, the man who’d had dozens of threesomes, who was said to have slept with the population of a small Yukon town. The man’s man. The ladies’ man. The Legend.

He didn’t look good.

In fact, he looked as though he’d just spent the last twelve hours as a human speed-bump.

And, on his back was the same rumpled white dress-shirt he’d been wearing the first night we’d met. The same subdued tie.

“Dude,” I said, edging into the seat across from him. “What’s with the get-up?”

“Living the dream.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Same thing I was doing the day I met you: looking for work.”

I blinked, surprised.

“You work?”

“Laugh it up…”

“You lose your job or something?”

“I’ve been unemployed thirteen months, darling.”

“Oh. Are you looking for something specific, or-?”

“Dunno, man. Times are tough. At this point, I’d pretty much take anything, but, I can’t even get a job at a goddamn coffee shop. Turns out, I spent so many years trying to learn how to pick up women, I don’t know a hell of a lot about anything else.”

“That sucks.”

“Tell me about it. I had to sell my car. Pawn off some shit. I’ve been living in my parents’ basement since last January. I’m nearly ten grand in debt. Hell, my girlfriend had to pay our membership to the Swinger Club this year. Shit’s retarded.”

We sat in silence. DJ StrangeLove sipped his coffee.

“Damn.” I sighed. “Your life’s a lot different than I thought it was when I met you.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

“Well, you know. There’s this Legend around you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Is there?”

I laughed nervously.

“Yeah. You know… People talk. Like, that story about the six chorus girls in the Arts Club show…”

“Um. It was the Gateway. And it was only two of them. And I didn’t even sleep with the second
one. We just messed around.”

“What about the houseful of women?”

“That was my girlfriend’s house. Those are her roommates.”

“What about the threesomes?” I asked, desperate. “The triple-digit body-count? The sleeping with the population of a small Yukon town?”

He guffawed loudly, sitting back in his chair.

“Are you serious, man? Who told you that?”

“I don’t know. I heard it somewhere.”

“Well, it’s bullshit. None of that ever happened.”

He sat forward, exhaling loudly.

“Jesus. I wish I had the life that everybody seems to think I’m having. I mean, yeah, I’ve had sex in groups, but that’s just because I spent years figuring out how to do it, and I’m lucky enough to have found somebody I love who’s into the same things as I am. Otherwise, we hang out with friends. We play board-games and shit. Dutch fucking Blitz. We argue about whose turn it is to take the garbage out. I’m just a dude, man. Whatever people are talking about, I’m not that. Hell, I don’t know if anybody is.”

There was another silence.

“So, I’m sorry about how things turned out,” I offered. “I should have listened more. And I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“No worries, man. And hey, you learned something, right?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty clear. Probably clearer than I’ve ever been.”

He clapped me on the shoulder.

“Good, man. Good. I was pretty worried there for a second. Thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m sorry I dissed The System.”

“Hey, I’m not sure you even know what it is.”

I sat back, extending my hand.

“Well, I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Not a worry, sugar-plum. Just keep on the straight and narrow. I told you to be your Best Self, remember? Not your worst.”

“Thanks, man. Really.”

“No problem.”

He extended his fist.

“Pound it.”

I shook my head. Then, I offered my hand. He smiled, considering for a moment.

And, for the first time since I met him, DJ StrangeLove shook my hand.

An instant later, he belched so hard, he vomited slightly into his mouth.

“You okay, man?” I asked, after he’d settled. “You look pretty ragged.”

He chuckled, shrugging.

“Well, you know, the first time you sleep with somebody…”

I laughed.

“How many somebodies was it exactly?”

“A few.”

“No way. A blonde, a brunette, and a readhead?”

He shook his head.

“So close.”

“Well, there’s always next time.”

“Are you kidding me? After this weekend, I need to spend a year in a monastery.”

And that was that.

I slowly made my way home, scarf knotted tight against the cold, and reflected. DJ StrangeLove had been wrong about one thing: I did understand The System. I understood it, I recognized its validity, and I appreciated what it had done for me, but I knew that, in the end, it was nothing but training wheels. The goal of The System was to help you fake it until you made it.

And you “made it” when you were confidently living a life that was attractive.

Not just attractive to others – not women in clubs, other men, or your friends and family, but attractive to you.

Because, if you didn’t eventually strike out on your own, and develop yourself, all those little tricks wouldn’t get you anywhere.

New clothes made me feel better in my own skin. It’s the same reason women dress up for a night out: It’s not for us; it’s so they feel attractive and powerful in themselves.

Touching people was something I’d never been able to do growing up, and learning to do it allowed me to feel confident with friends, acquaintances and surroundings.

Talking to strangers was a necessary part of life. Not just for picking up women. At job interviews. In the supermarket. The doctor’s office. The skills I’d learned were helpful in ways far greater than the scope of my writings for The Dependent. They were skills I should be using everywhere.

My journey wasn’t about women. It wasn’t about meaningless sex. Hell, it wasn’t even about becoming a ladies’ man. As far as I’m concerned, the real journey is to become somebody who’s comfortable interacting with the people he wants to interact with, regardless of gender, if and when the need arises.

And, strangely enough, as a result of this realization, I was also comfortable being single. More than comfortable. Empowered. 60% of Vancouver’s population is single. Hell, more people are single the world over than at any other time in history. Being single isn’t a consolation prize. It’s just as legitimate of a social status as marriage or a relationship. And, until you’re fully comfortable being single, there’s no way you can be doing anything but plugging other people into the holes in your life that need filling.

On my way home, I sat three rows behind two men I’d met briefly at the Social Fluency workshop; a short, sandy-haired gent with a memorable smile, and a down-at-the-mouth Asian fellow with prominent acne. They were engaged in something of a pickup, crowding around the woman in the seat opposite them.

The sandy-haired one leaned forward.

“Excuse me…” the sandy-haired one said, leaning forward a tad too much. “My friend and I have a question.”

I chuckled morbidly.

They’d figure it out eventually.

Then, on my way home, after grabbing a cheap shwarma, I stopped at a tiny shop on Main, and bought a plant.

A Ponytail Palm, to be precise.

Not for anybody else. Just for me.

I watered it, placed it in the window, and then sat down at my keyboard, in the hopes of composing a piece that would draw a satisfying conclusion to this whole drawn-out mess.

Fitting, I guess, that it ended the same way it began; with a plant. Well, a plant, and a magazine article.

I should have, but I didn’t.

I should have realized when I went home to Ontario for a wedding, and spent the evening forcing a buddy to drive me all over Ottawa while I made out in his back seat with a Russian named Natalia whom I’d met only twenty minutes before. He was angry; driving more than 100 km/h on residential streets as the Russian and I savagely groped one another.

“Ow! Quit it!” she shouted, after I bit her hard on the lip.

But instead of stopping, I bit her again, playfully.

“Quit it, you asshole!”

Finally, annoyed, she asked to be taken home, and when we parted, she gave me a withering look, as if I’d just messed up something worthwhile.

“Well, see you, then,” I said, stepping back into the car without a second look.

“No, wait!” she called after me. “I should at least give you my number.”

I laughed.

“I don’t want your number.”

Then, we drove away.

I should have realized it when, a few weeks later, a girl I hooked up with subsequently read CONFESSIONS, and declared she’d never speak to me again.

I should have realized it when I received a phone-call from DJ StrangeLove. It was the first in a long time, and he was uncharacteristically upset.

“Ian. Buddy.” he said, tersely. “Don’t you think you’re going a bit too far?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The thing with this Erica chick…”

“What about it?”

“What the hell was that? We talked about this way back when: you don’t sleep with people you don’t respect, and you certainly don’t disrespect them once you do. That shit was totally unnecessary.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Dude, the way you treated her, it’s as if you thought sleeping with you was some kind of moral failing on her part. Women like having sex as much as men do, but they have to deal with a whole different set of social circumstances after it happens. The worst possible thing you can do is make her feel shitty about it. It’s like kicking somebody after they bought you a candy-bar. It’s a horrendous double-standard, and it’s shitty, outmoded thinking. That’s not what The System’s about, mate. I taught you better than that.”

I felt the blood pound hot behind my eyes.

“Thanks, man, but I don’t need your advice.” I snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, I haven’t needed it for months. I don’t need your opinion. And I certainly don’t give a fuck about your stupid fucking Dating Manual.”

“Fine, man. It just feels a hell of a lot like I armed the wrong man with the right tools.”

“Oh, I see what this is about,” I seethed. “This is about your ego. This is about you thinking that everything I do has some kind of reflection on you and your bullshit ‘teaching’. Well, it doesn’t. I don’t even think about that stuff. Ever. And, you know what? Fuck it. Fuck it, and fuck you. Confessions is over. It’s done. I’m done writing. I’m done posting. And you and I? We’re done talking. Keep the hell out of my life. This all stops now.”

Then, I slammed down the phone.

Like I said, I should have realized it, then.

But I didn’t.

And, at the time, I thought: Why should I? It was my life. I was finally succeeding.

Things were happening all around me, and, I was drunk on hedonism. It was as if, up to this point, the soundtrack of my life had been entirely Jack Johnson and Pat Boone. Now, it was the fucking Ramones. It was Iggy Pop. The Eagles of fucking Death Metal.

Fuck The Dependent.

Fuck the contrived “transformation from loser to ladies’ man”, I thought. It’s about liberation. Freedom. Fun.

Everything came to a head on the night I saw Ms. Manners for the second time.

She was leaving for Europe, and, in a fashion typical of her, had invited virtually everybody she knew to a drugged-out farewell dancefest at Celebrities downtown. So, I tossed on my fuck-off mauve shirt, my new jeans, and headed out.

“Ian!” she said, as I arrived. “You came!”

“Of course! Wouldn’t miss it.”

We exchanged a high-five.

“How’s single life?”

“It’s great,” I replied. “I’m free. I can do whatever I want, and, you know what? For the first time in my life, I don’t have to be nice to chicks. It’s liberating not to give a fuck.”

For a moment, her eyes darkened.

“Be careful about that,” she warned. “Reputation is serious business, being single. Don’t mess with people.”

I rolled my eyes.

Then, grinning, a bounce in her step, her usual flightiness further exaggerated by God-knows-what drugs she had coursing through her system, she led me by the hand into the throbbing mass of bodies on the dance-floor. There, I met two of Ms. Manners’ friends- a muscular Australian, and his girlfriend, a curly brunette.

“Just so you know,” she said to us, giddy, “because it’s my party, I get to make out with whomever I want.”

And yes, she actually said “whomever”.

Then, she grabbed my hips, and pulled me into a sloppy kiss.

“Hey!” shouted the Australian. “How come he gets to go first?”

“Because,” she grinned, “I’ve never kissed him. And I’ve kissed you all over.”

I blinked.

Cocky as I was, this was still too much information.

The curly brunette laughed. Then, Ms. Manners grabbed me again, and we continued to make out; a long, wet affair with powerful groping and open mouths.

However, just as I began to get aggressive, she pulled away.

“By the way, that last article you published was horrible,” she said, and then she was gone.

“Whoah,” said a voice beside me. “Dude. Is that your girl?”

I shrugged.

“No.”

Almost everyone I knew was at Ms. Manners’ party:

Dependent personnel.

Leon and his girlfriend Brittany.

Even DJ StrangeLove was there, with his girlfriend, a sultry, leggy blonde. The two of them were high as kites, dancing amongst a group that included the Australian, the curly brunette, two blondes, and a redhead; Their pupils were dilated, their bodies sweaty.

“What are you doing here, and why aren’t you high?” DJ StrangeLove shouted, at the back of my head.

I turned, and he suddenly realized who he was talking to. His face hardened, and we exchanged a lengthy glance.

“Enjoy the party,” he said, dismissive.

Then he danced away.

“What are you doing here, and why aren’t you high?” It was certainly a good question. A moment, and two caps of MDMA later, I had my answer.

Dancing increased in ferocity. I made a point of grinding with as many girls as I could, and drank- as was the special of the evening, vodka redbulls from a large, plastic beach bucket.

And, as it continued, it became clear that this evening was going to be hedonism exemplified.

Ms. Manners was making out with the Australian.

Ms. Manners was making out with DJ StrangeLove.

DJ StrangeLove was making out with the curly brunette.

DJ StrangeLove’s girlfriend was making out with Ms. Manners.

I couldn’t decide whether I was looking at heaven or hell.

Somewhere in the night, Leon and Brittany danced up beside me, both of them no doubt tripping out as severely as I was, and just as inspired by what was going on around them.

“Kiss her! Kiss my girlfriend!” Leon bellowed.

We looked at each other.

“Do it!” he shouted.

I knew he was high. I knew we both were. But, the night’s vibe served to make it so I didn’t care.

So, I kissed her.

And, she kissed me back.

“Now, kiss my boyfriend!” Brittany ordered.

I went for it.

“Whoa, whoa!” Leon shouted, backing away.

He disappeared into the crowd. By now, the remainder of the party had vanished. Ms. Manners had taken DJ StrangeLove’s girlfriend and the curly brunette to the bathroom to make out. DJ StrangeLove himself was grinding up on a patron of indeterminate gender, his tie wrapped firmly around his forehead.

I grabbed Brittany by the shirt-front.

“We should probably kiss again.”

She looked unsure for a moment.

“I don’t know.”

I gave her a stern look.

“Okay,” she said.

I should have realized it then, of course.

I should have, but, I didn’t.

We kissed for another five minutes. I was aggressive, all biting and hair-pulls. The music in my head was The Clash, all rampaging drums and Joe Strummer guitar-solos. Eventually, Brittany pulled away, looking sheepish.

“We should probably find Leon.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. We should.”

So, we waded through the crowd. Eventually, we found Leon outside, smoking a cigarette. At this point, I was a train-wreck of alcohol and drugs, and, though I’m not sure how it happened, a bunch of us ended up back at Leon’s place. I spent some time in the living room. Some time in the kitchen. I drank Scotch. I may have eaten some Coca Leaves. I don’t remember. I met Brittany in the living room. Leon was, once again, nowhere to be found, so, with nothing else to do, we began making out again. First standing, and then laying on the couch. I groped at her breasts. She groped at my ass. Our breath was heavy.

A friend came into the room and we stopped, guilty, though I continued squeezing the inside of her thigh.

“Ian, man,” our friend said, his voice sharp. “Not cool.”

I scoffed.

“Dude. Leon said it was fine.”

“Look, I don’t care what Leon said. This is definitely not okay.”

There was a momentary silence.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

Which is how we ended up on the porch, and it was here that I pushed her underwear aside, and slipped my fingers inside of her. However, we’d scarcely been at it a moment when there was a rap on the window behind us. It was Leon, his pupils grotesquely dilated.

“Hey, guys!” he shouted.

A moment later, he was sitting beside us. But I didn’t stop, even as he sat right there right beside us. Talking. Hanging out like nothing was going on. Whether Leon noticed or not, I’m not sure. But, one thing’s for certain: eventually, the conversation faded, and silently, he went inside. Brittany and I resumed making out. Our breathing intensified. And, when I looked in her eyes, I knew that, if left unchecked, this interaction could very quickly lead to sex right then and there.

Our eyes locked.

Neither of us moved.

“I don’t know,” she said.

And, it was then that I realized it.

At what might have been the lowest moment of my entire life; sitting on a porch, a headful of chemicals, fingering my best-friend’s girlfriend, while he sat by and did nothing, it was then that I finally realized:

I’d turned into a fucking asshole.

There’s also a good chance she was a nymphomaniac.

And, two hours after I first spoke with her, we were having frenzied sex on the couch in my living room.

Her name was very likely Erica (though, if we’re being honest, it could have been Adria, or Angelica, or India, or, really, anything else that ended in “A”), and we met at The Biltmore, about four days after my encounter with the Smilodon.

Rather than dying down, in the days before I met her, it seemed my aggressive streak had begun to pick up speed; now, when I went out, the first thing I wanted to do was circle the room in search of available females. When I talked to my friends, conversation inevitably turned to pickup, either failed or successful. Strategy. Planning.

All my life, all I’d ever done was have relationships.

Sex was Relationship Sex.

Fights were Relationship Fights.

I’d been considerate. I’d been monogamous. I’d even been celibate for a good length of time when Maggie was in California. And, the worst part was, most of the time, it hadn’t even been my idea. I’d gone along with it because that’s what they had wanted, and because that’s what I thought I needed, and because I was a “decent guy”.

But now, I didn’t want to have Relationship Sex.

Hell, I didn’t even want to have a relationship.

I wanted to be free. I wanted to put myself first. I wanted to behave like every entitled asshole I’d ever gone to high-school with; every thoughtless prick who’d ever gotten the girl over me, and then dumped her three days later. I wanted to have fun. I wanted to have random hookups that I never called again. I wanted to be the person that men warned their sisters and girlfriends about, the kind of guy that would walk into a room, and, from the minute he made eye-contact with a woman, everyone would know that it was all but over.

“Then, Ian walked in,” they’d say, “and that was that.”

And, as my opinion on the subject continued to shift, I noticed a marked change in myself, and those around me.

When I talked, people listened. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a strong, confident man. The mechanics that DJ Strangelove had so often blathered on about had become entirely clear to me.

Or, so I thought.

It was around nine o’clock on a Wednesday night, when Leon, Brittany and I met with a small group of friends to drink moderately (for once), and watch an eccentric local band rock and thrash their way around the stage.

I first saw her as I made my way back from the bar: a brunette. Short. Spunky. Her cheeks freckled in a fashion that shouldn’t really have been sexy, but was. She was dancing with a friend off to the side of the stage, though “dancing” might be a bit of an understatement. Her legs spun like she was in a Warner Brothers cartoon, and her arms flapped so quickly, and with such vigour that, at any minute, I expected her to take flight.

“Whooo!” she screeched, as I passed.
“Wow!” I shouted. “You guys are totally rocking out!”

And that was that.

That was the full extent of our conversation.

A second later, she was back to dancing like I didn’t even exist.

“Who was that?” Leon asked, as I returned to the table.
“Dunno.”
“You talk to her?”
“Oh, yeah. It was scintillating.”

I turned back, and looked at her one more time.
“She’s cute.”
“I don’t know, man,” he laughed. “I’m not sure she’s your type. I mean, she hasn’t even been through menopause yet.”
“Oh, fuck off.”

I didn’t see her again until the end of the night.

And then, as I was casually unlocking my bike, preparing for the brief but chilly ride home, I saw her, along with her friend, scanning the streets for a taxi. By this point, she was nowhere close to sober; steps unsteady, eyes glazed, makeup slightly smudged.

“Whoooo!” she shouted, as she caught sight of me.
“Well, if it isn’t the Biltmore Dance Team,” I laughed, extending my fist. “Pound it.”
She smiled.
“They didn’t appreciate us at all in there. The Lead Singer told us to shut up.”
“I can’t say I blame him.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“It’s been suggested.”

I removed my bike from the rack, and prepared to leave. But, before I could throw my leg over the seat, Possibly Erica pawed once at my forearm.

“Where are you going now?”
“Home,” I replied, confused. “Why?”
“I’m not ready to go home, yet. Maybe I’ll go downtown.”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “Go for it.”
“Are you walking to the bus?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to walk me to the bus?”
I shrugged.
“I’m going that way anyway. You can come if you want.”
“I like your shirt.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”

And so, we began walking toward Main Street. We chatted pleasantly, about the show, about her dancing. I dissed her repeatedly, found out she was an artist (currently unemployed, collecting EI). I punched her lightly in the shoulder, steadied her as she swayed.

And then, we reached the Bus Stop.

“Well, this is it.” I said, waving.

She looked disappointed.

“What are you doing now?”
“I told you. I’m going home.”

Why does she keep asking me that? I thought.

Then, it occurred to me.

“Did you want to come and hang out for awhile?” I asked.

Her face lit up.

“Yes!”

Then, I grabbed her, pulled her in close, and made out with her aggressively.

And, that was that. No date-plan, no clever scheme, no Planet Earth strategy. Just me, and the Biltmore, and one rather intoxicated drain on society.

I made a mental note to call DJ StrangeLove later and gloat.

We arrived at my apartment twelve minutes later.

“Mmm!” she exclaimed, as we walked through the door. “It smells good in here!”
“Stir-fry. I made it myself. Do you want some?”
“Yes. Where’s your bathroom? I need to freshen up.”

I pointed, and, within a second, she was gone.

However, she’d neglected to mention that, by “freshen up”, she actually meant “brush my teeth, collect my thoughts, and spend close to ten minutes quietly vomiting in your toilet.”

So, I sat at the kitchen table, spooning through stir-fry, and, some time later, she emerged, looking refreshed.

Well, I thought.

This was certainly a low-point.

Or was it?

Up until now, I hadn’t physically been able to have sex with a woman without getting attached to her. The old me would maybe get her phone number, meet for coffee once or twice, and do my best to stave off a panic-attack. The new me was out of control, and I wanted to see what he was capable of.

I kissed her.

Damn, she was cute, I thought.

Cute, and very drunk.

“Ah,” I said. “I see you found my toothpaste.”

She giggled, becoming momentarily gorgeous in her inebriation.

We sat back, and I passed her the remainder of my stir-fry.

“So, tell me something awesome about yourself.” I said, with authority. “You’ve got me all the way here. Why should I keep hanging out with you?”
“Well,” she said, with a grin. “I can put my legs behind my head.”
“Fuck off,” I replied. “No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can,” she grinned.
“Fine, Prove it, then,” I chided. “Show me what you’re made of.”

And, she did.

And then I ripped open her tights.

And that was that.

I awoke the following morning in a cold sweat.

We’d been up most of the night, and damn if the sex hadn’t been incredible. Once again, I’d revelled in my newfound aggression, and, for her part, Possibly Erica had loved every minute of it. Afterward, when we both collapsed onto the sheets, panting and exhausted, I’d promptly started to fall asleep.
“That was fun,” she said.
I managed a grunt.
“Am I annoying you?” she’d asked.
“Talk all you want. I’m going to sleep.”
Then, I’d passed out. Certainly not the wisest move with a complete stranger in my home. For all I know, she could have been up stealing my iPod.

When the alarm went off the next morning, I rose quickly, showering, dressing, eating breakfast. But, when I returned to the bedroom to collect my watch, I found her, still fast asleep, face-down on my duvet.

I watched her for a brief, triumphant moment.

When I looked at her, I felt nothing. No attachment. No feeling.

Nothing.

“Get up. You gotta go.”
She stirred, but didn’t rise.
“Get up,” I barked. “I have to go to work.”
I picked her clothes up from where they lay, strewn across the apartment, and threw them at her.
“Come on, man. It’s time to go. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. I know life is hard for you artistic-types, but not all of us live off of the government.”

She rose. Stretched. Slowly began to dress.

And, as she sat by the front door, clumsily pulling on her boots, I could see the shame in her face. She tried to hide it, of course, but it was there.

We exchanged a brief, meaningless hug.

“So, enjoy your walk of shame, then,” I said, leaning on the door-frame.
She laughed unconvincingly, getting to her feet.
“I think I’m ready for it.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re something of a veteran.”
Her eyes flashed with anger.
“Wow. You really are an asshole.”
I winked.
“Damn right, darling. And you made me late for work.”

Then I slammed the door in her face.

And that was that.

Unfortunately, it was with a woman in her fifties.

Her name was Denise, she was into astrology, and I met her at The Yale, somewhere around closing time. Leon and I had stumbled in the door only a few minutes earlier, and, after a long afternoon of heavy drinking, neither of us was particularly lucid. In fact, I managed to lose him within five minutes of entering the building and, not knowing what else to do, made my way to the bar.

Which is where I ran into her. She sat, poised on the edge of a stool, ankles wrapped around the metal legs, all fifty of her years radiating forth as she gave a palm-reading to a guy in his early twenties.

“Holy shit,” he was saying. “Holy shit.”

She muttered something else, looking into his eyes and smiling.

“Holy shit.” he said again.

She grinned slyly.

Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say she was a good fifty, but, in that moment there was something sexy about her. Mysterious. Then again, in my elite state of drunkenness, I probably would have found a sewer-grating sexy.

“Holy shit,” the twentysomething said again.

“What are you doing to this man?” I barked, authoritative, shouldering my way through the crowd.

She looked up, sultry.

“Don’t you worry, honey. I’m a licensed professional.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to see some identification.”

She laughed.

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“Holy shit, dude,” said the twentysomething. “She’s an amazing palm-reader.”

“Sorry, but I never believe witness testimony,” I replied. “I’m going to need proof.”

She smiled as I pushed my hand into hers, and looked her square in the eye.

“Show me what you’ve got, man. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t a question.

I was sick of asking questions.

In fact, in the weeks following my bondage experience, it was like I was a new man. The last two weeks had been a time of intense growth,  refinement, and transformation. No longer was I bound by the same rules as I had been in the past; a switch had flipped in my head, something primal had been released, and I was ready to attack Vancouver’s dating scene like never before. I’d attended a free, introductory Pickup Workshop with a group calling themselves Social Fluency, where I learned a little bit about pickup, and a whole lot more about how to effectively sell a pickup workshop.

I’d gotten a haircut.

I’d bought a pair of ridiculously stylish boots.

I’d picked up a classy, well-fitted collared shirt, in a solid shade of fuck-off mauve.

I’d bought a pair of raw denim jeans that fit so snugly, I had to call DJ StrangeLove to ask if there was such a thing as too tight.

And, for the first time, I’d done this not because anybody said I should, but because I actually wanted to. My weekends were filled with drunken debauchery, and, everywhere I went, women were talking to me. Complimenting my shirt. My boots. My demeanour. Asking me about myself. I was touching them, making them laugh, making them chase me.

I was being my best self, and the greatest part was, for the first time in my life, I didn’t care what anybody thought.

Mothers, lock up your daughters, I thought. Because Ian Hannon’s on the prowl.

Denise ran her fingers along my hand. A year ago, I might have have recoiled at her touch. Shrunk from it. But now, I embraced it. Welcomed it. Knew what it could do.

“There are all these little breaks in your Life Line,” she said. “That indicates that you’re in a period of great change or transformation. And your Heart Line is so long; it runs from one side all the way to the other. That indicates that you have very classical notions of romance and partnership.”

“Holy shit.” I replied.

She ran her hands over the tips of my fingers.

“And you’ve got a very solid Mount of Saturn. That shows that you’re not afraid to work hard, and overcome adversity.”

Just then, I felt an elbow strike me solidly in the back.

“What’s up, budd-ay?”

It was Leon.

“This place is Cougar Central,” he whispered in my ear.

And, before I could respond, he produced a woman who looked to be about forty from behind his back; tall, lanky, brunette, nursing the dregs of a nearly-empty Heineken.

Denise squealed with glee.

“That’s my friend Shirley!” she shouted.

“Really? Well, that’s my friend Leon.”

“You guys know each other?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Wow. What are the chances?”

We talked and laughed for a few more minutes. Denise was pawing at my arm. She was laughing at my jokes. And she was still fucking fifty. But, like I said, I was just drunk enough, and just cocky enough, and just transformed enough, that I truly didn’t care.

Which is definitely to blame for what happened next.

“Everybody out! We’re closed!” shouted the bouncer closest to us.

“Awwwwww!” Denise and Shirley groaned, in a kind of strange harmony.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” Leon said, with a friendly shrug.

Denise pawed at my arm again.

“I live just around the corner. You boys should come by for a drink.”

I glanced at Leon.

“Sure.” we both replied.

Mothers, lock up your daughters.

I don’t remember any of the walk to Denise’s apartment. In fact, I’m not sure I even remember where it is. All I know is, some time later, we were sitting on couches in her living room, laughing, joking, flirting. Leon was across the room, engaged in an epic arm-wrestle with a less-than-impressed Shirley.

“I really love your shirt,” Denise smiled.

I chuckled.

“My drink’s empty.”

And, as she padded softly out of the room, Leon abruptly leapt from his perch on the couch, and declared:

“Okay man, I’m off.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Brittany’s probably wondering where I am.”

Shirley sat forward.

“Brittany?”

He smiled.

“Yeah. My girlfriend.”

Shirley’s face fell.

A minute or two later, they both left. I made a mental note to thank Leon later for his excellent wingmanship. And suddenly, we were alone: Denise sitting beside me, handing me a full drink, which I slugged back almost instantly.

“This is fucking weak,” I griped.

“Sorry.”

Then, I began kissing her. I was so abrupt at it, that I even surprised myself, but she certainly didn’t seem to mind. We spent the next half-hour on the couch, fooling around like teenagers, as I ran my fingers over her sandpaper skin.

“God!” she screamed. “I don’t know if I can do this! You’re so young!”

Right, I thought. Because I certainly hadn’t noticed that on my own.

“Oh, shut up.” I replied. “Don’t even worry about it.”

But, the damage had been done. I froze, suddenly aware of the reality of the situation. How on earth was I going to tell my friends about this? No doubt, taking home a cougar is nothing new for a large number of Vancouver men, but this was far beyond a mere Cougar. This was a fucking Smilodon. This was the grandmother of Cougars. She kissed me again, her breath smelling like brandy and cigarettes. And then, just like that, I didn’t care. I was drunk, she was sexy, and that was all there was to it.

I’d like to tell you that nothing happened between us.

For the sake of my self-respect, I’d like nothing more than to say that I packed up, went home, and had a restful night’s sleep.

But that would be stretching the truth a little.

In fact, it would be stretching the truth a lot.

No, even though she was twenty-three years my senior, even though it made no sense, even though she was more Martha Stewart than Kim Cattrall, we went into the bedroom, and shut the door.

The following morning, I awoke at dawn. Denise lay face-down beside me, barely stirring. We’d been up most of the night, and during that time, I’d been more sexually aggressive with her than I’d been with anyone in my entire life. Slapping her. Pulling her hair. Throwing her around. I made my way to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, put my clothes on. She rolled over, and I watched her for a moment. Unfortunately, sobriety and morning light were not particularly kind to her; in the bedroom’s dim glare, she looked like some kind of dishevelled rodeo clown. I weighed my options: wake her for an awkward morning hug, or leave without saying goodbye, and make her feel cheap?

Ultimately, I chose the third option, and a few minutes later, we were having sex all over again.

“Well, that was fun,” she grinned, when it was over.

“Sure.”

I put my clothes on, and walked to the door.

“This was fun, Ian!” she called after me. “We should do it again sometime.”

I turned and looked over my shoulder, the hint of a smile on my face.

“It was nice to meet you.”

Then, I walked out the door, and headed home to take a forty-minute shower.

I spent the remainder of Saturday laying on my couch, sweating pure gin. I spent a large portion of that time wondering what the hell was happening to me, and marvelling at the changes that could take place in a single year. And, to my surprise, I didn’t feel particularly ashamed about my experience with Denise. Why should I? Almost every guy I knew had, at one time or another, taken home a Cougar. Hell, it was practically a club-scene rite of passage. It was just one more step toward me becoming a sexually empowered, socially confident human being. And, when I headed out that evening to meet with Leon and some friends, I did so with a feeling of success and accomplishment coursing through me. Imagined that when I saw my friends, they’d clap me on the back, pour me a beer, and give me a hearty congratulations. Well done, Ian, they’d say. Way to move forward. Way to be a man. What was age, anyway? It’s just another number.

I arrived at Leon’s place a few minutes later, and, as I walked through the front door, I could hear his voice bellowing joyously from the kitchen.

“Hey, it’s Ian Hannon” he shouted. “Daughters, lock up your mothers!”

Five minutes after that, I was mostly naked.

And, how I came to be overlooking the Vancouver waterfront, stripped to my underwear, suspended from my ankles, with her strapped in beside me, biting at my ass like some crazed chimpanzee? Well, that requires a little more explanation.

Let me start at the beginning:

As many of you know, I made a heroic vow last year.

A vow to become more confident, more gregarious, to leave behind a life of social anxiety, and transform myself from loser to ladies’ man. I’d learned a great deal in that time: how to dress, how to approach a stranger, how to make conversation, how to appear comfortable and confident, how to properly get a phone-number. I’d learned how to manage a first-date, how to initiate physical interaction, how to talk on the phone. And most importantly of all, I’d learned how to say “Yes” to people and situations I might never have dreamed of exploring before. Which, after close to a year of complete insanity, had led me to this: the suspension, the biting, the partial nudity, and, eventually, in a way so complete that I can’t even properly describe it, a complete paradigm shift.

The girl hanging beside me was known as Ms. Manners, and, at the time of the aforementioned ass-biting, I’d known her all of two hours. She was petite. She was intelligent. She spoke three or four languages. And she was a friend of DJ StrangeLove’s, which, goes a hell of a long way toward explaining how we’d ended up at a bondage event together in the first place.

It all started with a phone call, three days before New Year’s.

“Dude. A friend of mine needs a date to a party.”

Of course, it was DJ StrangeLove.

“What’s the party?” I asked, suspicious.

“Some New Year’s thing. Sin City, or something.”

“Did you say Sin City? Don’t they do fetish parties?”

“Do they?”

He sounded coy.

“I don’t know, man,” I protested. “That’s not really my scene.”

“I already told her you’d go,” he replied, curtly. “And gave her your name. And phone-number.”

“Is it expensive?”

“Ticket’s paid for.”

“But, I told Leon I’d hang out with him and his girlfriend on New Year’s.”

“Jesus, Ian,” he scoffed, “I thought Times Square was the only place where balls needed to drop this weekend. This is a seriously fun, seriously cute, seriously hilarious girl, and you need to meet her.”

“Are you trying to find me a girlfriend?” I asked, suspicious.

All I received in response was a gale of laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’ll find out when you meet her.”

“Why can’t you go?”

“Sorry, mate. The lady and I already have plans.”

“Really? If she’s so awesome, I’d have thought you guys would want to hang out with her and get sexy.”

He chuckled.

“Oh, we already have.”

Three days later, at roughly seven o’clock in the evening, I arrived at her apartment.

“You can’t go dressed like that!” she exclaimed as she opened the door, gesturing to my sweater-and-jeans ensemble. “We’ll have to find you an outfit.”

And, so it was that, half an hour later, I found myself in her bathroom, mostly naked, being dressed up like Britney Spears.

Though I would ordinarily draw the line at dressing in drag, I was also a few ball-gags short of a bondage outfit, and, as Sin City was in the habit of refusing entry to those dressed “inappropriately”, we decided it was our only option. Following extensive discussion, we’d settled on a “schoolgirl” look: skirt, knee-socks, wig, and a bra stuffed with mini-apples, for that adolescent look. With the addition of a pair of glasses, and some collagen-based plumping lip gloss (that my host assured me was absolutely necessary), the look was complete. Filled with  trepidation, I stood back, and examined myself in the mirror.

Dear Lord, I thought.

I was fucking hideous.

“Well, you’re going to steal the show.” Ms. Manners grinned.

“I hope you’re right.”

“You will.” she replied. “Here, have some more collagen.”

An hour after that, we arrived at Sin City. The party itself was already in full swing, and there were people everywhere; people in fetish gear, people in themed outfits, a woman in nothing but a mesh bodystocking, her privates covered by strategically-placed condoms. There was a dance-floor, a spank-station, even a kissing booth. It was as if I’d stumbled into some bizarre sexual Disneyland, and, from the minute she entered the building, Ms. Manners was like a 5-year-old on Christmas morning.

“This place is amazing!” she gushed.

Then, she vanished into the crowd.

“The first naked person to run up and hug me gets a free beer!” a female voice shouted, from the nearby stage.

Alone, lost, and in a strange situation, I did the only thing I could think of: hit the bar, and loaded my hands up with as many drinks as I could carry. When I ran into Ms. Manners again a moment later, she was exuberant.

“They have a Spank Station!” she beamed.

I laughed nervously.

“Yeah, I saw that.”

“It’s two dollars per spank. And they have a number of different implements to choose from, from a wooden spoon to the Holy Bible.”

“Uh, cool,” I replied.

She smiled.

“I went for the Bible.”

Then, she was gone again.

I stood, confused.

Who the hell was this girl?

I spent the next thirty minutes wandering the party. My outfit was, as Ms. Manners had predicted, a huge hit. Women flirted. Men grabbed my ass. I didn’t have to worry about fancy techniques; conversations virtually started themselves. On the surface, I could see why the scene appealed to people; as unnerved as I’d initially been, it was actually freeing to be a freak. Surging with confidence, I began chatting up a cute brunette by the stairs.

“I hope you’re not wearing underwear under that kilt,” she remarked, glancing at my legs.

And, while I would ordinarily draw the line at removing my underwear in a public place, the vibe was so open and supportive, (and my senses were already so dulled by the six or seven beers coursing through my system) that I really couldn’t see any reason to disagree.

So, I bent at the waist, and took them off.

The young woman cheered, and we exchanged triumphant knuckle-pounds. Just then, Ms. Manners reappeared, her face aglow, a drink in each hand, and, having (judging from her level of giddiness) likely made a few additional trips to the Spank Station.

“Ian,” she said, her voice serious, “come with me. I need to show you something.”

She took me by the hand, and, grinning, led me up several flights of stairs.

And then, we entered hell itself.

The Dungeon couldn’t have been more than a thousand square feet in total. Two large bay windows gave an unparalleled view of the waterfront. Black lights illuminated the rest of the room, giving it a distinctly disturbing feel. And, suspended before us, giggling madly, was a voluptuous, naked woman having her ass spanked repeatedly by a three-hundred-pound man in medieval torture gear.

“Jesus Christ.” I said.

There were three Doms in the room, including the hirsute medieval one, and, as we entered, they greeted Ms. Manners gleefully.

“You’re back!” said one of them. “Think you want to give it a try after all?”

She nodded her head enthusiastically, but, for the first time all night, a flicker of apprehension crossed her face.

“You’ll love it,” one of the Doms promised.

Ms. Manners turned in my direction.

“This is something I’d really like to try,” she breathed.

The Dom shrugged.

“Or, you two could always try it together.”

I fought to stave off a coronary.

But, at the same time, Ms. Manners’ eyes lit up.

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Ian, doesn’t that sound lovely?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Really? You’ll do it with me?”

And, while I would ordinarily draw the line at stripping down and being humiliated in front of a bunch of strangers, by this point The Line had been left so far behind that it might as well have been in Uruguay. It was so far in the distance, I couldn’t even tell where the damn thing was anymore, let alone know whether I’d crossed it.

And so, before I could really allow myself to think about what I’d just agreed to, we stripped down to our underwear.

Ms. Manners removed her bra, which, at two hours in, marked the soonest I’d ever seen a person’s nipples after meeting them.

Then, it was time to be tied.

The process took nearly ten minutes. As my Dom informed me, we’d be suspended from a number of different positions, so proper preparation was key.

I took deep breaths. Attempted to focus on the scenery. Made awkward conversation with anyone who would listen. By now, there was quite the crowd gathering around the bondage frame, and I was ecstatic that the black light would hide how red I’d suddenly grown.

Minutes passed.

Beside me, Ms. Manners was nearly finished, her body a mass of twisting rope.

Our eyes met for a moment, and I gave my best impression of a cavalier, carefree smile.

She grinned back.

“How’s my hair?”

“What?”

“My hair. Is it okay?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s fine.”

You daffy broad, I thought.

We’re almost naked, about to be hogtied and hung from the ceiling like sides of beef, and struck repeatedly by a refugee from The Lord of the Rings, and you’re asking me how your fucking hair looks?

Who the hell was this girl?

I took more breaths.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. In fact, this should be exciting, shouldn’t it? I was having a brand-new experience, after all. Isn’t this what healthy, adventurous people strove to do every single day? How many of my friends could stand up and say: “I spent my New Year’s Eve being tenderized by a hairy fellow with a thyroid problem”? If I didn’t like it, I never had to do it again. But, for now, I should simply relax, lay back, and open my mind to the wonder of a new experience.

I was experimental.

I was open-minded.

I could distance myself from it, take note of my observations in the moment, and draw a sensible conclusion afterward. Like a science experiment.

“Here we go,” my Dom said. “Is this okay?”

Yeah, of course it is, I thought. It’s a goddamn retirement cruise.

A second later, we were hoisted into the air. The rope bit into my wrists. Observations, I thought. Focus on the observations.

The first thing I noticed was that it hurt.

The second thing I noticed was that it hurt a lot.

Beside me, Ms. Manners was in her own world, arching her back in ecstasy as two of the Doms took turns spanking her at maximum strength.

Now, everyone has their own responses to dealing with anxiety.

Some people laugh at inappropriate moments. Others freeze, unable to make a sound.

I, on the other hand, could not shut up.

It must have been a horrible sight: me, eyes wide, gaping like a goldfish, mouth spewing a nonstop deluge of superfluous words and phrases.

And, what’s worse, it was mostly puns.

“It’s been great hanging out with you tonight, man.”

“I’d love to help, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

“Do you think we could rope someone into getting some water for us?”

It was profoundly unfortunate. By this point, Ms. Manners was completely ignoring me, as were both of the Doms, preferring instead, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, to enjoy the experience with the hot, mid-twenties woman who shared their particular kink.

I tried to remain calm.

This wasn’t just the weirdest thing I’d ever done. It was by far the weirdest thing I’d ever done. I was completely out of my comfort zone. In fact, as far as I could tell, not a single aspect of this situation was in any way familiar. I could have been on fucking Mars, for all I knew.

“So, uh, what’s your name?” I asked the ogreish Dom, hoping that the conversation might return some semblance of normalcy to my evening.

“Skunky,” he replied.

“How about you?” I asked the next.

“Ian.”

You had to be kidding me.

At this point, Ian (who I will now call “Satan”, for ease of reference), and the other Dom moved us into a new position, and resumed their spankings.

Suddenly, I felt the sting of a hand across my buttocks.

Then, it happened again.

And again.

And, suddenly, we were both being spanked, and she was biting at my thigh and ass-cheek, and I was nipping at her breasts and shoulder, and then we were flipped around, and the crowd was murmuring their appreciation and then our faces brushed one another, and all I could think of was how truly excellent it would be if I could work up the courage to just kiss her while we were hanging there… and then it was over.

Satan removed our restraints, thanked us, and we put our clothes back on like nothing had even happened.

“Wow,” I remarked, slipping back into my skirt, “that was crazy.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I kind of wish you’d just started kissing me while we were up there. That would have totally made the moment.”

I cursed myself.

“Oh, yeah. Uh, totally.”

“I would have done it myself, but I kind of have a crush on this guy I’m sleeping with right now. You know how it is.”

Then, she was gone.

Yep, it was official: that was the weirdest science experiment I’d ever been involved in.

On the lengthy cab-ride home, I thought about what had happened.

If DJ StrangeLove had challenged my existing perceptions of sex, love, and relationships, Ms. Manners completely shattered them. Who were these people in Vancouver who existed outside all of the cozy boundaries of “normalcy”?

People who had sex with others, and still maintained a loving relationship.

People who had crushes, and still didn’t mind a quick bite of stranger-ass.

And I realized that, despite my nerves, the experience with Ms. Manners had awakened something in me. Something primal. Something aggressive.

I wanted to branch out. I wanted to experience all of the things I’d been missing.

For the first time, I wanted to truly embrace being single, and all that came with it.

I was officially about to become a menace to society.

]]> http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/25-ms-manners/feed/ 3 http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/24-amber/ http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/24-amber/#comments Wed, 08 Dec 2010 17:30:59 +0000 Ian Hannon http://thedependent.ca/?p=965 Chapter 24
One Man's Heroic Quest to Overcome a Lifetime of Social Anxiety, and Transform Himself from Loser to Ladies' Man.]]> Three days after the phone call, I met with a group of friends at the Alibi Room to discuss strategy. After all, if I was going to get to the “next level”, I needed to be fully prepared. I knew from previous experience that, while a loose date plan was conceptually solid, I didn’t want to get stuck doing the same thing over and over. I needed an injection of fresh ideas. On a bleary Wednesday evening, I sat down with Leon, Terry, DJ StrangeLove, and Brittany, Leon’s girlfriend, to brainstorm the elements of a perfect first date.

“Like we talked about ages ago, the ideal first date should encompass three seperate elements,” DJ StrangeLove said, “and the first should always be coffee.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Gives us a chance to talk and get to know each other. Feel out a personal connection before moving on to the main event.”

“Right. And, I mean, fuck, this is Vancouver. You’re never more than thirty seconds from a coffee shop. So, working it into your afternoon shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Exactly.”

“The second part should be something fun and engaging, preferably with a physical component. It has to be fun. It should be something people don’t ordinarily do, and, ideally, something with an adventurous aspect to it. It doesn’t have to involve much conversation, because its purpose is to develop your physical relationship in the same way you’ve begun to develop an emotional one. You’re getting pretty good at getting her interested. The goal now is to keep her interested. And, like I said before, in order to progress a relationship of any kind — be it sexual or otherwise — the other person needs to be comfortable, physically close with you, and invested in the interaction. Dating is like fishing, man: you can’t land ‘em all, but you stand a much better chance of holding on to the catch if you set that hook.”

He passed me a folded piece of paper, his face serious.

“On this piece of paper are the top 10 date ideas I’ve ever come up with. Venues, activities, events, addresses. Have a gander when you can.”

I drained my glass and sat back in my chair.

“The third part should always involve food,” he continued. “They’ve done studies that show that the degree to which we enjoy another person’s company increases substantially if we spend time eating with them. It’s fucked but it just means that if you grab a snack, a meal or, better yet, a dessert with somebody, you’re just making your own job easier. And the added benefit of going to three seperate venues in one day is that she’ll feel like she’s known you for longer. Instant comfort.”

“Listen to this academic over here,” Terry snorted.

DJ StrangeLove peered over the edge of his beer glass.

“Way it’s gotta be, man,” he said with a condescending shrug.

Terry blinked.

“Oh, shit. Hold on. Are you the guy from Ian’s articles?”

To my surprise, DJ StrangeLove looked momentarily sheepish.

“Um. I guess I am.”

Terry chortled, giving him a knuckle-pound. “Really? I thought he just made that shit up! I didn’t know you actually existed.”

DJ StrangeLove grimaced.

“Unfortunately for everyone concerned, I do.”

“So,” I called out as my second beer arrived, “here’s where I need everybody’s help: what’s fun to do around Vancouver? We need to put our heads together. Come up with a list of things to do that I can draw on if I’m ever stuck for ideas. Who’s got something?”

Some details had already been solidified. Like with travel_gurrl, Amber and I would meet on a Sunday morning. Like with travel_gurrl, we would meet at around ten o’clock on Main Street. And, as ashamed as I was, it was nice to have a basic idea of the ins and outs of our time together. Beyond that, the afternoon was a blank slate. A tabula rasa. Anything, as they say, could happen.

And so, as the alcohol flowed, we jotted down ideas.

“Bowling!” Somebody shouted.

“Archery!” Leon called out, midway through his fourth beer. “First date archery!”

“I love that! That’s fantastic!”

“Dude. I was joking. I don’t even know where you’d do that.”

“Oh. Well, it’s still fantastic.”

“I don’t know. I don’t see what’s wrong with just meeting for coffee and talking,” Brittany remarked. “That seems like a good first date to me.”

DJ StrangeLove scoffed.

“Don’t listen to girls, man. They don’t know what they want.”

Unsurprisingly, Brittany looked offended.

“Um. Yes, we do.”

“I think she does, man,” I interjected.

“No, they don’t. They just know when they get it.”

Brittany stole a meaningful glance in my direction and then involved herself in another conversation.

“Girls will tell you to ‘just be yourself,’ or ‘just be real with her,’ and ‘do what’s in your heart.’ But, brother, that’s about the worst advice anybody can give you. Vaginas are like cars: just because you own one doesn’t mean you know how to drive it.”

I wanted to slap him on behalf of anybody who’d ever been born with homogametic sex chromosomes.

We continued to drink and scrawl down ideas, and before I could pinpoint exactly what was happening the evening had degenerated into a drunkfest of epic proportions. When I awoke the following morning, I took a quick look at what we’d come up with. The results were, in a word, unusual.

Some suggestions were excellent. Some were seasonal. Some were indescribably stupid. But not one of them seemed quite right for Amber and me. Despite all of our hard work and heavy drinking, I was not much further along than when we’d started.

I texted DJ StrangeLove.

“DUDE,” I wrote, “I’M STILL NOT CONVINCED THAT ANY OF THESE IS RIGHT. SOMETHING DOESN’T SIT PROPERLY. NEED SOMETHING ELSE.”

“OH. WELL, THERE’S THE 21ST CENTURY FLEA MARKET ON COMMERCIAL THIS WEEKEND. COULD BE OK.”

That was it, I thought.

It was timely.

It was specific.

It was perfect.

The following evening, I tried the suggestion out on Amber.

“That sounds great!” she said. “I’ve always wanted to go to that.”

We spent the entire afternoon together, talking, laughing, enjoying ourselves. It was fun. It was exciting. I was witty, charming, engaging. At the end of the afternoon, we exchanged a hug. She said she’d had a great time, and we agreed to hang out again soon. Despite several phone calls and messages, though, I never heard from her again.

Like they say: You can’t land ‘em all.

To my surprise I wasn’t particularly bothered by how things turned out. Sure, it would have been nice to see her again. But, either way, I was learning. I was growing. I was having the ride of my life.

“Don’t sweat it, man,” DJ StrangeLove said over beers that evening. “Rejections are like navels: everybody’s got at least one under their belt.”

“Dude. Just shut up.”

]]> http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/24-amber/feed/ 11 http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/23-eileen/ http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/23-eileen/#comments Fri, 03 Dec 2010 17:29:36 +0000 Ian Hannon http://thedependent.ca/?p=952 I got two more numbers that week, both under the same circumstances: late night, out with friends, dancing up to a girl, hitting it off, and at the end of the night, deftly initiating a Grade A number grab. The first was Amber, notable for the green wig she wore on the dance floor. The second, Eileen, was the best-looking girl in the room.

My friends were stunned. They’d never seen anything like it, and certainly not from me. As far as they were concerned, I was a changed man, an animal, the hero of the hour.

“Dude! That was definitely the hottest girl in here!” Leon gushed after my encounter with Eileen.

“I guess.”

“Man, she totally wanted your number.”

“Ah, whatever,” I shrugged.

“No dude. Seriously. You need to go get her number.”

“Fine,” I sighed. “I will.”

In that instant, I was reminded of the night I first met DJ StrangeLove: Century, the woman in the low-cut dress. Since then, so much had changed. Six months ago, I’d barely been able to approach a stranger without the urge to explosively defecate. Now, getting a girl’s phone number barely seemed scary anymore. I was meeting new people. I was having new experiences. And hell, as much as I hated to admit it, I was starting to enjoy being single.

I approached Eileen and her friends, coat slung over one shoulder.

“What?! You’re leaving?” she exclaimed.

“Yeah,” I replied, playfully punching her shoulder, “I’ve gotta go.”

She leaned towards me and, bringing her lips surprisingly close to my ear, whispered:

“I had a really great time with you tonight, Ian.”

“Me too,” I grinned. “We should totally hang out.”

“Yeah! For sure!”

I smiled and pulled out my cell-phone, wordlessly initiating a number grab.

“Let’s hang out this week,” I suggested. “There’s all kinds of fun stuff happening, so maybe I’ll give you a shout.”

Then, glancing over my shoulder, said with a wry smile:

“You know, if you’re lucky.”

She had texted me twice before I even got home.

Head shot.

Like I said: I was the hero of the hour. It was as though I was playing Fallout and had just hit Level 30.

I was charming.

I was funny.

I was unstoppable.

Suddenly, everything was firing on all cylinders.

That week, I grew my perenially-scraggly facial hair into a magnificent, manicured beard. I cut my hair into a shorter, but nonetheless disitnctly rock-and-roll shag, which I occasionally even combed and managed with products.

I went shopping entirely on my own, buying several superbly well-fitted shirts and a brand-new pair of jeans to replace my worn-out $300s (which was just as well, considering that, with one knee now torn from seam to seam, they had come to look more like a frumpy, denim muppet than actual legwear).

And, when I called DJ StrangeLove one night, it was to inform him that I didn’t require his assistance anymore.

“It’s time, man.” I explained. “I’ve got the skills I need.”

“Uh huh,” he said, unimpressed.

“I can’t have you up my ass all the time. Now that I’ve got the basics figured, and I’m comfortable with it, I just need to explore. Meet people. Have experiences.”

“I hear that, man,” he replied. “Everybody’s gotta have a goal. Like, how when I first started out, I wanted to hook up with a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.”

“Um… sort of. I was thinking more of just exploring the dating scene. Whatever the city has to offer. Singles Events. Clubbing. No offense, but I’m just ready to just strike out by myself. We can still hang out, but I think we’re done with the whole master/apprentice thing.”

“Uh huh,” he repeated, his voice wry. He was using his Holier-Than-Thou tone, the one that said, with a touch of weary acceptance, that his opinion was right and mine was wrong, but that it really wasn’t worth it to argue. It was a tone he’d honed to perfection, no doubt through years of being a raging asshole.

“There’s more to picking up girls than getting their number, and having them think you’re cute on a Friday night,” he continued. “It’s a process with multiple steps. Having her attracted to you is the first step, but to truly build a solid and lasting interaction, you also need her to be invested, comfortable, and physically close with you. Then, and only then, can a solid interaction take place. And that takes practice. Empathy. Observation. Shit that needs to be developed and refined.”

“See, there you go again,” I replied. “You’re always telling me that I suck at social interaction. Well, believe it or not, I actually do know what I’m doing. It’s got a bit of The System to it, I guess, but I’m developing my own thing, here. Running in my own direction. I’m not even really thinking about it. I’m just out there, having a good time, and it’s working. Believe me, I’ve got this. I appreciate it, but I don’t need any more advice.”

“Uh huh,” he said again, his voice thick with sarcasm, “well, when you come crawling back, I reserve the right to gloat. In the meantime, good luck with those goals.”

“Well, they’re not much, but they’re better than a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead,” I spat.

“You kidding, man? That’s a great goal. I still have that goal.”

“Really? I’d have thought you had achieved that already.”

He laughed.

“Yeah. But never at the same time.”

Eileen and I exchanged flirty text messages throughout all of the next day. By evening, she’d found and requested me on Facebook. By the following afternoon, we’d made plans to meet up that Sunday. Naturally, I let her stew for several days before adding her as a Facebook friend.

“So, I guess you’re free to creep my profile, now,” I wrote, when I finally approved her, cackling with glee as I hit “Send” and giving myself several psychological high fives.

My confidence was near to overflowing. Her attention was intoxicating, overwhelming, terrifying. It was the rollercoaster ride of my life and I wouldn’t have given it up for anything.

What can I say?

It ain’t easy being Level 30.

The following evening, I sent Eileen another flirty text. Even after a few hours, though, there was no response. So, I sent another.

Still nothing.

Two days went by.

Silence.

I sent her a casual email, and it garnered little more than a two-line response.

And then, Friday night, two days before our scheduled hangout, the death blow:

“IAN. I CAN’T MAKE IT ON SUNDAY,” my phone read, “I’M NOT REALLY INTERESTED IN A RELATIONSHIP RIGHT NOW. GOOD LUCK. -EILEEN”

I was devastated.

I was hurt, angry, despairing. Every ugly emotion a person could name surged through my body as I scanned the words and letters.

“FUNNY, BECAUSE I’M NOT LOOKING FOR A RELATIONSHIP, EITHER,” I typed back, furious, “SEE YOU ON THE DANCE FLOOR.”

For hours, I sat and scanned my messages, trying to figure out exactly what had happened.

And then it hit me: Facebook.

I’d never paid much attention to Facebook profiles, preferring instead to rely on the admittedly old-fashioned charms of face-to-face interaction. When I punched up my own profile, the revelation nearly made me gag. It was a virtual potpourri of turn-offs: my information was years old, my friend count was nearly 600 below hers, and my photos were, for the most part, horrible. There were shots of me with one eye closed, laying in a drunken heap on the floor, or vomiting into a garbage can. One picture showing me shirtless at a keg-party and pointing to one nipple with a look of triumph was particularly incriminating. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to see me: judging from the content I had online, it looked like I’d just walked off of the set of Trailer Park Boys. Having already been through the process of online refinement once with PlentyOfFish, I could see the mistakes instantly and I chided myself for not taking action sooner. Other than a few albums of my time spent in California, it was violating virtually every one of DJ StrangeLove’s Ten Commandments (not to mention several related to good sense, taste, and possibly legality).

I went to bed in total disgrace.

So there it was.

My first major rejection.

For the first time, I had put my best foot forward and squarely failed.

There was no doubt about it: I sucked.

I moped my way through work the following day. Dragged my ass out to evening drinks with Leon, where I did little but gripe and complain, and generally fantasize about ways I could one day set Mark Zuckerberg on fire.

And, that night, I received an email from DJ StrangeLove.

“I told you there was more to it,” it read. “Keep your pecker up.”

I hated him for two days.

But, the more I thought about it, the quicker I realized that my failure with Eileen wasn’t actually as devastating as it first appeared. Sure, it stung, but it didn’t really sting for very long — a day or two, at most. And I discovered with a kind of euphoria that, while being rejected certainly hurt, it was nothing I couldn’t handle. All my life, I’d held myself back socially because, at the core of it, I was terrified of rejection. Now, separated from that fear, I began to see the process for what it was: social aptitude, like any other skill, was a journey, and that journey would necessarily include both successes and failures. While the failures certainly hurt for a moment, the truth, in the end, was that they actually provided more of an opportunity for growth and learning than the successes did. The more I failed, the quicker I would learn. Not only was failure desirable, it was actually essential for success. Ultimately, in order to truly succeed, I’d have to go out there and fail my ass off.

I was filled with purpose and renewed self-worth. In this mindset, I picked up the phone, fished the number from my pocket, and called Amber.

“It’s Ian,” I said. “What are you doing this Sunday?”

No matter what I did, no matter how many messages I sent, it was like I’d ceased to exist.

A week went by.

Two.

Three.

Nothing.

It didn’t make sense. My messages were succinct. Funny. Charming. Yet, out of the hundred or so emails I’d sent hurtling into cyberspace, only four or five of them had ever been returned. And what had become of of those four or five? What had those conversations yielded?

One date.

One single, lousy date.

Maybe I just hadn’t hit my groove yet, I thought.

Maybe I wasn’t being assertive enough.

Maybe I just plain sucked.

Whatever the case, there was something I simply wasn’t comprehending. The website itself provided a helpful mechanic, didn’t it? Surely, PlentyOfFish made dating easier by removing all of that pressure and the unease of meeting strangers. But if PlentyofFish was meant to make dating easier, why the hell was it so damn hard?

I called DJ StrangeLove in a stubborn funk.

“What am I doing wrong?”

“I dunno, pard,” he shouted. “It’s a big ol’ conundrum.”

Behind him, I could hear the sound of a crowd, and the distant strains of “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy.”

“Did you just call me ‘pard’?”

“Yessah.”

His voice was laboured. Affected. In fact, it reminded me a lot of what John Wayne may have sounded like if he’d had a childhood collision with a cement truck.

“Um. Why?”

“Country/Western party at the Swinger Club. The lady and I came as them fellers from Brokeback Mountain.”

Amongst the crowd noise, I heard a cheer, and the muffled sound of a DJ on the microphone.

“Sorry, did you just say ‘Swinger Club’?”

“Yessah.”

I was startled, not only that Vancouver had its own Swinger Club but that, apparently, they also had theme nights.

I struggled to control a laugh.

“Country/Western Night?”

“Laugh it up, fuckface.”

“Is that why you’re talking so weird?”

“It’s my cowboy accent.”

“You sound like a stroke-victim.”

“I’m in character.”

There was another cheer from the crowd.

“I’ve gotta take a break from this for awhile,” I said. “I’m beating my head against the wall.”

“Listen,” he replied emphatically, “it’s not that bad. Dude, you’re so close. All you need to do now is make sure these women know you’re in charge. You said it yourself: the last few times you’ve been out with girls, you’ve been the passenger. You’ve been doing what they wanted when they wanted. You need to be the driver, dude. You’re on the cusp of something incredible here and, trust me, once you start taking an active role with people you’ll be amazed at what can happen.”

He belched.

“Anyway, must get on back to the party,” he drawled. “Good luck.”

“Right. You and Custer enjoy the OK Corrall.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“I just wish I knew how to quit you.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Cackling, I hung up.

Forty minutes later, I met Leon and a few friends at a downtown nightclub. It was Saturday night and, in an attempt to gain some distance from my recent PlentyOfFish shame, I was determined to lose myself in a healthy session of weekend crapulence. There were four of us at the bar: Me, Leon, Terry, and Brittany, Leon’s girlfriend. Together we were an elite drinking unit, having sworn a solemn oath to consume any and all alcohol that came our way. We chatted amiably and, after some liberal consumption, were ready to hit the dance floor. I spent nearly an hour dancing — sometimes with friends, sometimes on my own — and it was close to the end of that hour that I saw her.

Brunette.

Dark eyes.

Smooth skin.

I’d seen her more than once that evening, but any time I’d attempted to make eye-contact she’d been whisked away by her exceptionally muscular male companion. And suddenly here she was, nearly beside me and grooving with such abandon that her elbow almost connected with my sternum.

“Hey!” I shouted, in mock-derision, “watch it with your wild-ass dancing!”

She laughed.

“I like your shirt!”

Shakespeare himself couldn’t have written a better introduction.

We stayed together for a while, dancing and attempting conversation. She seemed cute and fun and interested in me, and (best of all) her male companion was nowhere to be found. As it turns out, dance floors are wretched places for conversation, and we quickly gave up on shouting in each other’s ears. Instead, we grooved to the music, awkwardly dancing beside one another and occasionally connecting when I’d give her a playful shove or hip-check. The entire time, I could hear a little voice in my head screaming over and over:

“Be the driver! Be the driver!”

I danced a little closer.

Then, she danced a little closer.

Be the driver.

Within a few minutes, our dancing brought us closer still, our movements getting more intimate. I spun her around a few times and moved in closer still. Soon, we were face-to-face.

I balked.

It had worked. And, what’s more, she didn’t seem to mind. But now what?

The politics of dance floor pickups were completely alien to me. I began to panic as she moved her body even closer to me. For a brief, electrifying instant, our faces brushed one another.

Holy shit, I thought.

Could it be? Was she attempting to initiate a dance floor make out? I’d certainly seen it happen — at parties, in clubs, anywhere a dance-floor could be found, but I’d certainly never had it happen to me. What was the protocol? How would I know when to move in? How could I keep my bearings with all this movement going on? For all I knew, I could get disoriented and miss her face completely. Driver, not passenger, I thought to myself.

Driver, not passenger.

And why not? I’d escalated the physical contact to the point where she was unafraid to be in my space. She was touching me, brushing me with her hands. Politics notwithstanding, her body language was giving me all the signals. I leaned forward and went in for the kiss. Unfortunately, just as I closed in, she hesitated and in that moment I completely chickened out. I stopped a mere millimetre from her lips and laughed nervously.

She giggled.

“Sorry,” I said lamely.

She giggled again.

“Don’t mention it.”

I was filled with self-loathing.

This is why I never went into politics.

Nonetheless, we danced together for the rest of the night. I found out little tidbits here and there: her name was Karyn, she was 20, and she was going to veterinary school. Around one o’clock, she turned to me and said:

“Fuck, I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” I agreed.

“I think I need some pizza.”

She looked at me half-expectantly. Clearly, this was an invitation.

“Yeah. Sounds good,” I replied. “Let’s do it.”

Her face broke into a grin.

“Sweet!”

Taking me by the hand, she led me out of the club.

I spent the next five minutes internally high-fiving myself.

For the next hour, we sat in a restaurant across the street, sipping pints and munching on french-fries. Our conversation was enjoyable and interesting, and I even managed to “showcase my best self” by steering the conversation towards things I was good at. I brought up my work for The Dependent, Maggie, the time I’d spent sleeping on couches in California, and to my surprise it didn’t feel like shameless self-promotion.

“That’s so cool,” she breathed.

As it turned out, Karyn was also a photographer and, taking that as a common point, I passed her one of my official Dependent business cards.

“Sweet!” she gushed. “Can I keep it?”

I raised my eyebrow, attempting to appear serious.

“I don’t know. How do I know you won’t just lose it somewhere?”

She’d lost her wallet twice that night already.

“I won’t! I won’t! I promise!” she pleaded.

“Well, okay. But only if you keep somewhere safe. I don’t give those to just anybody.”

She giggled.

“I’ll keep it close to my heart.”

“What, like, in your bra?” I joked. “That does seem like a safe place.”

She laughed, tucking the card in beside her left breast.

“It’s a deal.”

We paid our bill, and wandered onto Granville Street. Just as we emerged from the restaurant, Karyn’s male companion crossed our path.

“Karyn!” he exclaimed. “There you are.”

“Uh oh,” I grinned. “Am I in the middle of a domestic situation here?”

Karyn chuckled, embarrassed, and her male companion went a deep red.

Silverbacked.

The three of us talked for a moment, and the male companion, despite being muscular, funny, and much more attractive than I, simply had no idea how to interact with a woman. He had no skill with disses, showing his status, or giving worth to his affections, and, as a result, resorted to an endless volley of lame compliments.

“You look so good tonight,” he’d say. “You’re so stylish.”

“Thank you,” Karyn would say.

Then she’d turn and resume flirting with me.

I felt a surge of accomplishment.

In this brief moment, I had received indisputable proof of how far I’d come. Only a few months ago, I wouldn’t even have known what those mistakes were, let alone have been able to keep from making them. After ten minutes of being ignored, he gave up and, with a bemused look in my direction, wandered off.

Amateurs.

I said goodbye to Karyn on the corner as her bus pulled up.

“We should probably exchange an awkward hug, don’t you think?” I said.

She laughed.

“Those are my specialty.”

“We should do a photo session next time you’re in town.”

“Yeah. Sounds great. I’ll give you a call.”

I returned home that night in the grip of euphoria. I’d managed, in less than an hour, to accomplish what four weeks of online slogging couldn’t: I’d made a connection. A real, human connection. It dawned on me then exactly why PlentyOfFish doesn’t work nearly as well as it ought to: it’s a dating website. No matter how witty your messages may be or how clever your comments, the end goal is still to get a date. It puts women on their guard. It makes men seem needy. It takes that entire mammalian concept of display and selection to a whole different level divorced of any other social context (like friends or fun). In the end, that isn’t going to make meeting people easier at all. If anything, it’s actually more pressure. There and then, I resolved that I was done with PlentyOfFish. In terms of the cost/benefit ratio, it simply wasn’t worth my time. There was a world out there, a world of women who were fun, exciting and, apparently, interested in talking to me. Plus, it didn’t take months to meet them; it took less than two fucking hours.

I lay down on my bed that night and beamed.

It was working.

I was improving.

Meeting people was getting easier every day. And, against any of my original predictions, I was actually starting to enjoy myself.

I was in the driver’s seat, and nothing was going to get in my way ever again.

Of course, in the days leading up to my “hangout” with travel_gurrl, I had no idea what I was in for. The week following my accidental bender was filled to the brim: work, socializing, and, as I’d been instructed, messaging five women on PlentyOfFish per day to hone my introduction skills. Some responded; others didn’t (and, in one instance, I was even contacted for a “Casual Encounter”, which I considered for a shamefully long time before finally deleting). And then, before I was properly prepared, it was Sunday morning, and I found myself sitting on the outdoor patio of a bakery on Main Street, basking in the sun and doing my best to keep from hyperventilating.

The stakes felt abnormally high. Despite all that had happened in the interim, this was still my first actual “date” since Steph and, given how marvelously that had all turned out, it was understandable that I was more than mildly terrified. It was like starting all over again, only this time, for better or for worse, I was flying solo.

This wasn’t accidental. In fact, I’d purposefully kept DJ StrangeLove out of the loop. Despite the regular use of his “methods”, I was still uncomfortable with the prospect of it all: the knuckle-pounds, the thumbs, the date-plans. It still felt like a trick, a hoax. It was like I was being untrue to myself and my upbringing, while the other person wandered around in blissful ignorance when there was no doubt about the fact that they’d just been gamed.

And it’s not like women were doing this. It’s not like women sat up late at night with self-styled pickup “gurus”, spouting junk-science and evolutionary theory, and went out to public places just looking for someone to manipulate.

No. If I was ever going to see this regimen through (and I’d vowed that I would) I had to begin making it my own, starting with the date-plan.

As DJ StrangeLove had said all those months ago, “the whole idea is to make it as low-pressure as you can.”

“Never suggest a meeting on Friday or Saturday,” he’d said, “because those are date nights. Do your nerves a favour: pick a low-pressure time like a Wednesday night or a Saturday afternoon.”

That seemed to make sense. We settled on Sunday afternoon.

The plan itself, which was of my own devising, was relatively basic: coffee first, followed by a stroll through the alleys of Main Street, then, if the mood struck us, some lunch. She, like myself, was something of a photography buff, so searching for interesting photo opportunities around the neighbourhood seemed like a legitimate, low-pressure way to spend an afternoon. Moreover, scheduling a meeting between breakfast and lunch virtually guaranteed that, unlike her predecessor, she’d be hungry eventually.

All of this ran through my head as I sat alone on the patio of Main Street’s Liberty Bakery. That, and the fact that I had absolutely no idea what this person looked like in real life. I had some concept thanks to online photos, but those could be hopelessly out-of-date or doctored through the cunning use of camera angles and Photobooth settings.

What if she turned out to be grotesque?

Or, worse, much better-looking than me?

I endeavoured to breathe from my diaphragm, munched on half of a muffin, pulled a rock-n-roll biography from my bag, and attempted to lose myself in the sexual exploits of DeeDee Ramone. As each person passed, I scrutinized their features, comparing them to the photos in my head.

After ten agonizing minutes, she arrived.

“Ian?” she said, grinning broadly.
“Hi!” I replied, overflowing with linguistic aptitude.

She was cute. That much was obvious.

Brunette. Great body. Charming style.

As I sized her up physically, I realized that she was almost certainly doing the same to me. I did my best to square my shoulders and smiled in a way that I hoped was cavalier and confident. She excused herself to grab a coffee, and, heart pounding, I sat back down, a brand-new date-plan having suddenly solidified in my mind:

She returned a moment later and we spent the next while talking, pleasantly enough, about work and our respective weekends. She seemed interesting and cool as hell, and, in spite of myself, I started to relax. The conversation needed a nudge here and there but soon enough it was flowing freely and comfortably, and we decided to embark upon our stroll. Conversation remained pleasant and playful and within a few minutes had turned to The Dependent. This was not particularly surprising, given that it figured so heavily in my PlentyOfFish profile, and that our early correspondence had included discussion of my work. Still, the minute she brought it up, my heart began to pound. After all, the last time a girl had stumbled upon my writings the outcome was about as pleasant as a bag of fresh hamster shavings.

“So,” I began, “any particular favourites?”
“Walking Tours with the Fighting Flaneur, of course. That was fun.”

She hesitated.

“Anything else?” I asked, my voice wavering.
“Well…” she said, eyes flicking towards the ground, “I really enjoyed ‘Confessions of a Single, Lonely Guy’, too.”

My mouth went dry. Suddenly, all of my survival instincts were triggered. I was seized with the inexplicable desire to bolt.

“Oh, uh, well…” I sputtered, “I guess I have some explaining to do.”

She chuckled.

“I guess.”
“The goal isn’t to fuck with people,” I babbled, “it’s to learn and grow. To examine dating as a universal experience. And hopefully, in the process, to give guys like myself a free resource for information they wouldn’t find elsewhere — an opportunity for them to learn from my mistakes.”

She smiled.

“Well, it’s certainly great for that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. So many of the feelings and experiences you’re having are things that could happen to anybody.”

I was stunned.

She didn’t think I was a freak at all.

As we continued talking, I realized that travel_gurrl wasn’t bothered by the idea that she might one day end up in a Confessions article. In fact, it seemed as though she liked it.

“So,” she purred, “are you going to write something about me, then?”

I couldn’t believe it.

I had a groupie.

For the next twenty minutes, I was euphoric. We wandered through alleys, eventually making our way to Commercial Drive.

A groupie. Incredible.

I was DeeDee Ramone.

I was David Lee Roth.

I was every single member of Led Zeppelin, combined into one shining example of pure, throbbing manhood.

She knew about Confessions and was okay with it. In fact, I could set my fears of manipulation aside; she knew what was afoot and was comfortable with it. Still, I held back the extremes of DJ StrangeLove’s methods. After all, she seemed like a great girl. I didn’t really want her to feel like she’d been gamed.

As we made our way up the street (her sauntering and me attempting to keep from skipping), she pointed at a Sushi restaurant.

“I’m getting kind of hungry. How about you?”

I revelled in my cunning.

“Sounds good.”
“Well, if you like sushi, this place is fantastic.”

As we entered, I felt slightly uneasy. We hadn’t been walking for a particularly long time. While I’d certainly expected lunch to come up at some point, I didn’t know it would come up so soon; however, travel_gurrl grinned and took a seat, and I became too busy being lost in her gaze to remember much of my worries. A moment later we had ordered, and by the time our food arrived conversation had again inexplicably returned to The Dependent.

“The Sasquatch article was cool, too,” travel_gurrl said.
“Yeah. I hear that was an interesting weekend. Did you go?”

She laughed.

“I did. Can’t say I remember much of it, though. I was pretty messed up.”

I blinked, startled.

“You do drugs?”
“Sometimes.”
“That wasn’t on PlentyOfFish.”

Her eyes met mine, unapologetic.

“Problem?”
“No, of course not,” I replied with mock derision, “but it is starting to make me question your profile-writing skills.”

She tossed her hair and smiled.

“Your profile used to say you did drugs, too.”

Good gravy, I thought. How much has she read?

Suddenly, having an admirer didn’t seem like quite so much fun after all.

I began to sweat.

What if she’d looked at everything?

She would know my every move before I even made it. She would be wise to the shoves, the disses, the kinesthetic conditioning. I instantly became paralyzed by fear and retreated into a shell, terrified of even the smallest interaction lest I be discovered and called out. All the while, she was giving me smiles and playful touches and every indication that she was interested, whereas I could barely look her in the eye without turning red. I didn’t touch her. I didn’t diss her. In fact, it was all I could do to keep from gagging, so divided was I between fear of rejection and plans to conscript a conquering army for the purpose of utterly destroying the Internet.

“So, you’ll have to tell me when the article’s coming out,” she said, giddy. “I can’t wait to see it.”

I receded into bitterness. It seemed as though travel_gurrl was more than okay with being featured in Confessions. Rather, I was beginning to question whether appearing in an article was her primary motivation for meeting me in the first place.

We talked for another twenty minutes as I walked her to the Skytrain station, chatting about horse shows, online dating, and other commonalities. She would flirt and touch me. I would smile awkwardly and internally loathe myself. When we parted at the station she gave me a warm hug, which I returned, mechanically.

“I had a lot of fun hanging out with you, Ian,” she smiled.
“Yeah, me too,” I replied.
“You’ll have to let me know when the article comes out.”
“I will,” I replied, trying to disguise my rancour, “but it’ll probably be a few weeks. We should probably hang out again in the meantime.”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

Then, she raised her fist and grinned: “Pound it.”

A moment later, she was gone.

I watched her vanish up the stairs, shaking my head.

“You’ll have to let me know when the article comes out.”

I walked home in a state of total confusion.

It was only as I reached the front door of my building that I realized why.

She hadn’t been a groupie at all. In fact, whether she realized it or not, she’d been using The System.

I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t noticed earlier. It had all been there: the style, the disses, the touches to show interest and social dominance. She’d steered the conversation any way she wanted.

And she’d had a date-plan.

We hadn’t settled on Sunday; she’d suggested it. I hadn’t brought up lunch; she had put that on the table all by herself.

ALWAYS HAVE A PLAN.

I couldn’t believe it. Consciously or naturally, she was operating on so many of DJ StrangeLove’s “principles”, it was almost sickening. She knew all of my secrets. As I stood by and watched, she had just turned every single of one of them around on me. And now, just like she wanted, I was going to write about her. I blushed and laughed in spite of myself.

There was no doubt about it: I’d just been gamed.

The remainder of my evening was spent in the midst of a number of my favourite pastimes, among them:

followed by:

and, naturally, after all was said, done and said again, I was right back on the road to:

travel_gurrl wanted to hang out the following week. Nickininedoors_13 emailed to say she thought I looked like fun. PhotoLily messaged to see if I was going to the Arcade Fire concert. Considering that the pinnacle of my interactions with women in the preceding weeks had been limited to a single discussion in a grocery store (we spent no more than five seconds having a scintillating discussion about limes), I barely knew how to respond. It was as though, with my arrival on PlentyOfFish, a signal had been sent to the women of the lower mainland, a signal that said I was interested, available, and, apparently, attractive.

I diligently responded to each email.

travel_gurrl and I set up a date.

Nickininedoors_13 and I had a red-hot flirtation about the use of capital letters.

It was incredible. I only had one hard and fast rule: I wouldn’t say no to anybody. As someone with a good deal of experience with rejection, I didn’t want to abuse my new-found power, and do to them what dozens of women had done to me over the years. I wouldn’t “forget” to respond. I wouldn’t tell them I was really busy when what I meant was “I’m not interested”. No matter how awkward they were, no matter how unattractive, I would treat each person with courtesy, respect, and interest.

I would be the bigger man, dammit.

By the end of the week, I was euphoric.

The attention was intoxicating. And so, that Friday, as a kind of private celebration, I put PlentyOfFish on hold, threw on my $300 jeans, and hit the town.

Which is how I awoke on a holiday Monday with a dry mouth, a pounding headache, and a mysterious text-message on my phone that read simply: “Hey, mister.”

To say that I was excited would be something of an understatement.

The mysterious correspondent seemed saucy, interesting, and, most intriguing of all, I had absolutely no idea who it was. I didn’t remember giving my phone number to anybody all weekend (then again, I also didn’t remember sweating so hard on the dance-floor that I shorted out my cell-phone, which both my friends and Fido assure me happened, so my status as a reliable source is a trifle suspect).

It was a complete mystery. Obviously, I’d made an impression on somebody. I just didn’t have any goddamn idea who.

“Hey, yourself,” I replied, buying time.

Then, I spent the next hour browsing through whatever photographs I could find, attempting to piece the weekend together. As it turned out, I’d been quite the popular devil. In fact, it appeared that my attractiveness in the online world was holding strong in the real one. Whether it was DJ StrangeLove’s tactics, my new clothes, a new-found confidence, or something altogether different, I’d interacted with more women in that single weekend than I ever had in my entire life. It took nearly two hours of painstaking reconstructions, but in the end, I had it narrowed down to three separate possibilities.

SCENARIO 1:

Friday night. Yaletown.

Her name was Marisa; she was blonde, Australian, and a little tipsy. In addition, she belonged to a particular class of woman I like to call “Out of My League”, and when, around 11:00, she and a friend approached Leon and I as we were midway through a game of pool, I was totally unsure how to proceed.

“Will you play pool with us?” she screeched.

I was speechless.

Luckily, Leon, a few beers deeper than I, managed to swoop in, and save the situation.

“I don’t know,” he responded, “there’s another guy running the table. He just stepped out for a smoke, and, if you win, I’m pretty sure he’ll kill us all.”

They both giggled, and, a minute later, we were in the middle of a game. Marisa’s friend, whose name escapes me, sunk a few balls in quick succession. I feigned terror, and, conspiratorial, leaned over to Marisa.

“You realize,” I said, in a low voice, “your friend is putting us all in grave danger by playing so well.”
She tried to keep a straight face.
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“Clearly.”

And, as the game went on, we found ourselves having a genuine conversation. She asked how I was. I said I was one-and-a-half thumbs up. She told me about herself. I threw down a few solid disses that even DJ StrangeLove would have been proud of. Things were moving well, and I’d even begun to consider implementing a number-grab. Everything was going swimmingly.

And then, Leon decided to “help.”

As Marisa and I were laughing, and talking, I suddenly found myself grabbed from behind, and pulled in for such an intense bear-hug, that I nearly flew off my stool.

“This guy is such an awesome guy. This guy is the best.”
His voice was slurred, his eyes hazy. He’d been drinking solidly throughout the game, and by now, he was absolutely wasted.
“I’m sure,” Marisa replied, a pained expression on her face.
“No, really,” Leon continued, fingers clamped vise-tight around my shoulder, “this guy is the best. I love this guy.”
“I’m sure,” she repeated, testy.
But Leon didn’t stop there.

In fact, he was so emphatic about my alleged awesomeness, that he continued to push the point for another three-and-a-half minutes, while I burned with embarrassment, and thought about stabbing him with a beer-bottle.

Another agonizing minute or two later, she walked away without a word.

We talked again awhile later, and, despite my best attempts to salvage the interaction, the damage had been done.

“Sorry about that,” I attempted, weakly, “he’s really drunk.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You guys are quite the team.”
“Ha. Yeah,” I chuckled nervously, “he’s one hell of a wingman, isn’t he?”
She smiled thinly, and then, was gone.

There are few silverbacks more effective than an intoxicated Leon.

SCENARIO 2:

Saturday. Arcade Fire Concert. A raven-haired beauty with impressively-proportioned breasts, that I ran into in the refreshment lineup. I was standing with my friend Paul as she approached, and said:

“Hey, you look like a guy who knows what’s good.”
“Uhh..” I replied.

Eloquent as always.

She pointed to her belt-buckle, and said:
“It’s broken. What do I do? I mean, in your fashionable opinion.”

I couldn’t believe it.

For the second time in two days, an attractive woman had started a conversation with me. And, not only that, but her conversation-starter felt like it had been pulled straight from the DJ StrangeLove Playbook.

“Well, you can’t walk around looking like that,” I replied, authoritatively, “not in a nice place like this. I think your only option is to lose it.”
She grinned, and pulled it from her waistband.
“I think you’re right.”
“And look, you can use it for all kinds of different things,” I continued, taking the belt, and whipping Paul in the ass with it.
She laughed.
“I think you’re onto something.”

We talked for a moment more, about some basics: her name (Jenine), where she was from. And then, before I knew what was happening, the conversation was over, and she was gone. I saw her later in the show, and she still wasn’t wearing the belt. Whatever that means. I tried dancing up to her, too, but she was too far away.

And, still, no phone-number.

I was beginning to despair. Two failures, and I still wasn’t any closer to identifying my mystery caller. Who was she? What did she want?

Suddenly, there was a chime from my phone.

“So, do you know who this is?” the text read.
“That depends. It’s my boss, isn’t it?” I replied. “I know he got a new cell-phone this weekend.”
“LOL. No. Try again.”

And then, mid-flirtation, it dawned on me. There was only ever one real possibility, and it was an interaction I’d completely forgotten.

SCENARIO 3:

Sunday. House party for a friend I hadn’t seen in five years.

Her name was Paulette, and she was, in a single word, a Bowser.

But, she was funny, and engaging, and interested in me, and, holding true to my mandate, I didn’t reject her. I didn’t excuse myself, or tell her I was busy, or pawn her off on a friend. I was, apparently, still riding a wave of positive female attention, and I didn’t want to fall prey to the same abuses of power that had claimed so many others. I sat, and talked to her for close to an hour. And, despite my complete lack of attraction, it was enjoyable.

Finally, when the evening came to a close, she stood to go.

“Well, I’m going to grab a cab. It was nice meeting you.”

What happened next, I still can’t entirely explain.

Perhaps it was sympathy.

Perhaps it was to hold true to my mandate.

Perhaps, by this point, I was drunk on power. Or the thirteen Pale Ales I’d consumed previously. But, for whatever reason, I blurted out: “I’ll come wait with you.”

Paulette looked pleased.

“To stand outside,” I coughed, “so you don’t… have to wait alone.”

But, the damage had been done.

She was playfully touching and pawing at me as we waited outside, laughing at my jokes, trying to keep the conversation going. And, before I even knew what had happened, she had up and number-grabbed me.

“We should hang out one of these days,” she said, smiling.
“Totally,” I replied, trying not to sound like a dick.

Then, she passed me her phone, and watched as I clumsily punched in my number, and spent the rest of the night hating myself for it.

I couldn’t believe it.

It really did work.

So, that was it.

After all of that excitement, it was Paulette after all. And, to make things worse, I hadn’t even honed my skills by initiaing a number-grab. She’d done it all on her own. In fact, for the entire weekend, it had been that way. Sure, I’d been popular, but in the end, I was little more than a passenger, carried this way and that by the machinations of women I’d barely met. It was a start. But, it wasn’t enough.

And now this.

Unwanted attention? What a novel concept. Who knew there was such an unexpected downside to being attractive. If I hadn’t been so busy hyperventilating, I may have even found it funny.

I began to sweat.

Now what?

What did I say?

I certainly wasn’t into her. I didn’t want to date her, or hang out, or lead her on. I just wanted her to go away. Even DJ StrangeLove, with all his rules, wouldn’t hold this one against me.

But what should I do? Feign a protracted medical condition? Move away? Fake my own demise?

And, given the circumstances, I did the only thing I could think of:

I told her I was really busy.

]]> http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/20-marisa-jenine-or-paulette/feed/ 3 http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/19-travel_gurrl/ http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/19-travel_gurrl/#comments Thu, 16 Sep 2010 16:52:35 +0000 Ian Hannon http://thedependent.ca/?p=755 "Never say that you do drugs on PlentyOfFish. To you, it might be a joint every now and then, but to them, you may as well be smoking crack with Hitler."]]>  

“I like to think I’m kind of a unique person.”

“Im normal so i would appreciate if you were too.”

“I believe that beardliness is next to Godliness.”

“I am especially keen towards people who are both humorous and witty in their approach.”

“u dont need to have a truck, it just be a lot cooler if ya did.”

“The first time we meet will be in a crowded Starbucks, to make sure you’re not a psycho.”

“If you’re under 6’0”, don’t even bother.”

“I am probably the most awesome girl you will ever meet and you better be pretty awesome yourself.”

“Personal hygiene is a big plus for me, so if you don’t clean yourself it’s probably not worth sending an email.”

“I love any animals… even including that porcupine that i swerved out of the way to hit but still hit him anyways and just knocked him in to a snow pile…”

“I love my bike and take it everywhere with me, his name is Marcellus Wallace, in case you were wondering.”

“I might not be the prettiest or sexiest… nor have the perfect body… I might not be anyones first choice… but I am a GREAT choice…”

Just when I thought my life couldn’t possibly get any weirder, DJ StrangeLove made me sign up for Internet Dating. By now, I’d stopped fighting his barrage of odd suggestions, opting instead to bear them with quiet distaste and the occasional heaving sigh. When I signed up, there were roughly 150,000 people online, which was comforting in a way, a reminder that I certainly wasn’t the only one out there who found social interaction terrifying.

The application form itself was more specific than I’d imagined, with fields for Religion, Profession, Birth Order, Dating Intent. It even had places for Current Salary and Longest Relationship, both of which I wisely ignored. Then, filled with unease, I took a quick profile snapshot with my webcam, and, after at least two beers, and a half-hour of pacing, wrote the following:

“ABOUT ME:

I’m not sure how to write this. Friends would tell me to be clever, charming, humorous and handsome, and, seeing as I’m varying degrees of all four, it shouldn’t be too hard.

I should probably start with what brought me to plentyoffish. Curiosity. Lust. Loneliness. This seems like a great way to cut through the intense unease of approaching a stranger, and avoiding the awkwardness of that situation going terribly wrong. Most importantly, since I rarely find the courage to approach anyone, this should increase my odds of meeting people. At least, that’s the plan.

I have yet to meet a person that doesn’t like me. I’m a part-time writer, full-time slave to the man, who loves his bike and his tunes. I’ve spent most of my time this summer biking, listening to music (Exile on Main St, The Suburbs) and taking pictures of Vancouver. We live in a fantastic city, and I love exploring it.

So, if you enjoy fast-paced rides through the alleys of the Downtown Eastside, then drop me a line.”

Under “Interests”, I listed a few quick items.

Under “Relationship Needs”, I selected “Other”, and under “Drug User?” I selected “Socially”. A few minutes later, I hit “SAVE”.

And then, I sat back and waited.

One day.

Two days.

Three.

Nothing. Nothing in my inbox but a “thank-you-for-joining” message from the founder (that actually got me more excited than it should have, before I realized what it was). I sent a few messages to girls I found interesting, singing their praises, commenting at length on pieces of their profiles I particularly enjoyed.

“I love the quotes you have listed,” I said to one, “I’d like to think these are mottos I can live my life by.”

One after another, I poured my heart out to these women, writing intense, well-thought-out messages, sometimes close to a page in length, but not a single one of them responded.

By the end of the week, I was in despair.

And it was then, just as I was ready to give up, that I recieved an email from DJ StrangeLove.

TO: Ian Hannon (ihannon@thedependent.ca)

FROM: DJSL

First of all, never put that you do drugs on PlentyofFish. Ever. This is just one of those things chicks don’t need to hear. To you, it might be a joint every now and then, but to them, you may as well be smoking crack with Hitler.

Now, the first rule of making a successful online dating profile is this: you need awesome pictures. Shots of you skydiving, bungee-jumping, hiking, doing sweet bike tricks; anything that shows you at your most exciting. It’s the first thing people see, and there is no better way to convey attractive qualities.

All of the rules that apply to picking up women in the real world apply to the online one, including that very first thing I ever told you: being yourself is not enough. You can’t just toss up a candid webcam shot, and a few off-the-cuff thoughts, and hope for the best. Like I said before, it’s not enough to just show yourself; you’ve got to show your best self.

Now, you might be asking yourself: ‘How do I showcase my attractive qualities?’

Well, fear not, sweet Prince, because below, I’ve provided:

DJ STRANGELOVE’S EPIC LIST OF 10 THINGS THAT EVERY LIVING BEING FINDS ATTRACTIVE, ALWAYS (HEREUNTO KNOWN AS ‘THE TEN COMMANDMENTS’):

1. Thou art well-dressed, and well-groomed.

2. Thou art safe, trustworthy, and well-adjusted.

3. Thou art unafraid of women, nor dost thou need their validation.

4. Thou art adventurous, and like to do exciting things.

5. Other women findst thou attractive.

6. Thou enjoyest sex, and art sexually confident, but don’t need it. Desperation ist unsexy.

7. Thou hast ambitions, and aren’t afraid to get what thou wantst.

8. Thou hast a sense of humour about others, and especially about thyself.

9. Thou hast, and are comfortable with high social status, and art socially adept.

10. Thou art willing to make her work for thine affections.

Have a gander at your profile right now, and tell me how many of these you’re actually adhering to.

“Lust”? Violates Rule 6.

“I have yet to meet the person that doesn’t like me”? Violates Rules 8 and 9.

And the entire section about being socially awkward? Well, it violates virtually every rule on the list, boyo. Who’s gonna want to hang out with you when you’re virtually guaranteeing that any social interaction with you is going to be about as fun as a speed-bump?

INTERESTS: Now, do you think for a second that this is a section that’s about your actual interests? No. It’s a chance for you to be attractive. Put down funny things as well as interesting ones.

It should be a useful cross-section of athletics, arts, “extreme” activities, a nerdy interest or two, and a few funny, random things, like “Coats”, “Greco-Roman Wrestling”, or “Avocadoes”.

And finally, I think we could beef up the excitement factor a bit. We both know you’ve done a lot more than you mention. Hell, you write for The Dependent. You’ve experienced so many parts of this city that nobody else has. and these are the details that need to appear. They’re true. They’re interesting.

They’re FUN.

All this goes doubly for messages.

The ones you’ve sent so far are far too long, and extremely needy-sounding. They state what you like about the other person, without giving them a single reason to give a shit.

Remember: Be Attractive First. You don’t need to convince them they’re your soul-mate. You simply need to give them a quick (and I stress quick) reason to want to keep hearing from you.

Simple. In and out quickly.

Like Delta Force.

When it comes to human behaviour, people are far more likely to commit to small decisions than they are to big ones. Your messages are basically trying to get her to date you. That’s a pretty big request from a stranger. Why not start with one line? Two lines? An amusing, cheeky question, based on her profile? Then, all she has to commit to is a one-line response. And then, the flip-side is, that once human beings have committed to smaller decisions, they’re a hundred times more likely to commit to bigger ones.

Good luck.

- DJSL”

“Are you suggesting I actually post something like that?” I shot back, “God, I hope not. Especially since it would be littered with lies. Just absolutely brutal lies. Where I come from, that’s called Selling Out.”

What was I, Indiana fucking Jones?

“ABOUT ME:

That I’d consulted DJ StrangeLove’s list didn’t matter anymore.

I had spent close to five hours writing the stupid thing, and countless dozens more cruising the site, getting the lay of the land. I had focused all of my energies on using what I had read, changing it to fit my personality, and comfort-level, and my idea of what was right, and, after all of that compromise, all I wanted to do was go to sleep, and I did so filled with self-hatred.

DJSL:
Five?

IH:
Um…

DJSL:
FIVE?

IH:
Yeah, man.

DJSL:
FIVE!!??

IH:
Yeah.

DJSL:
Fuck you. You didn’t get five.

IH:
Yes, I did.

DJSL:
No, you didn’t. There’s no fucking way you got five. Nobody EVER gets five.

IH:
Really?

DJSL:
FIVE?

IH:
YES.

DJSL:
Fuck you. No you didn’t. There’s no way. You couldn’t have. Did you really?

IH:
I’m serious, man. I’ll forward you the email.

DJSL:
Fine. Do it. Do it right now. There’s no fucking way.

IH:
There.

DJSL:
Fuck.
You DID get five.
How did you get FIVE?

IH:
Just awesome, I guess.
Marta, Starla, Linzi, Anne, and Lucille.

DJSL:
Lucille? Hahahahahahahaha! The piano teacher?

IH:
Don’t make fun of her. She was nice.

DJSL:
I bet she’s a tiger in the sack.

IH:
That’s sick.

DJSL:
No, man. The minute you get those white gloves off, I bet she gives a mean handjob.

IH:
Shut it. She sent me an email already.

DJSL:
WHAT? Really?

IH:
“I enjoyed your recommendation of the band Sigur Ros. Please also enjoy the band Blonde Redhead. Hope to hear from you soon!”

DJSL:
Hahaha. Jesus.
Yeah, she would do all kinds of freaky shit to your man-parts.

IH:
No sharks this time?

DJSL:
We’ve moved on from that.
So, did you get back to her?

IH:
Nah.

DJSL:
Why not?

IH:
I can’t do it, man.

DJSL:
WHY NOT?

IH:
These people’s lives are already hard enough. They weren’t at Speed-Dating because they were giant losers. They were there because their priorities are different. They’re not your kind of people.

DJSL:
“My” kind?

IH:
You know. One-night-stand people. People who make sex a priority over relationships. They’re there because they want something more, and they don’t know how to go about finding that kind of someone. The last thing they need is ME fucking with them.

DJSL:
Ian, you need to be meeting people. Like, weekly. How are you going to learn if you don’t practice?

IH:
I know.

DJSL:
The goal isn’t to get laid. Getting laid is just a pleasant side-effect. The goal is mastery of the Social Arts. To be able to walk into a room and own it. To be able to get what you want from people.

IH:
That would be nice. But, at the same time, man, I don’t know. What kind of a person is it that can control a whole room?

DJSL:
The kind of guy who knows how.

IH:
I’m not sure that’s how I roll is all. Besides, it’s been so long since we’ve done any work. I don’t know if I’m up to it.

DJSL:
Are you kidding? You’re on fire right now, buddy. You’re finding something.

IH:
I don’t know. I need to be solid in myself before I can let anyone else in. I’m such a protective person, usually. It’s probably my biggest flaw. This goes for everybody. Friends, girlfriends. Whatever.

DJSL:
So, no more Speed-Dating.

IH:
Maybe not right now.

DJSL:
But you still need to meet people.

IH:
Yes…

DJSL:
…
How do you feel about online dating?

IH:
Not a chance.

DJSL:
Come ON, man.

IH:
Really?

DJSL:
Yeah.

IH:
Really???

DJSL:
I’m serious, man.

IH:
Fuck you. There’s no fucking way.

DJSL:
Why not?

IH:
It’s full of losers. Besides, I don’t know if I’m comfortable selling myself like that. Like I’m some kind of product.

DJSL:
But, you are.

IH:
I don’t like it. I’m not going to put rules on who I am.

DJSL:
Dude. How many times do I have to tell you? Nobody’s trying to change who you are.
The first time we meet somebody, we ARE a product. Our soul is not the product. Our mind is not the product. But, how we stand, how we carry ourselves, what we say, how we say it? How we present ourselves? THAT’s our product. These are all things we can control, and there’s no better venue to learn how to craft your image than on the internet.

IH:
I don’t know.

DJSL:
Whatever, I’ll even sign you up. I’ll totally write your profile and everything.

IH:
What? No way! That’s SO dishonest.

DJSL:
Are you kidding? There are BUSINESSES in Vancouver that will write your profile for you. Like, professionally.

IH:
That doesn’t make it right.
It’s just going to be more of the same speed-dating people anyway. Not my scene.

DJSL:
Dude, plentyoffish was invented in Vancouver – the online dating scene is HUGE here. It’s not a bunch of mouthbreathers and basement-dwellers – it’s regular folks looking for the same things as everyone else. They just might not know how.
Sound familiar?
And it’s a great place to practice.

IH:
Nope. I won’t do it.

DJSL:
…
I’m making you an account right now.

IH:
Don’t you fucking dare.

DJSL:
I’m doing it.

IH:
Fuck! Don’t. Just-
Let me do it.

DJSL:
Okay, fine. Deal.

IH:
Thank you.

DJSL:
Do it tonight.

IH:
I will.

DJSL:
You better.

IH:
I said I WILL.
Fuck.
Sometimes it’s like you’re my girlfriend or something.

DJSL:
Most action you’ve had in awhile.

IH:
You’re an asshole.

DJSL:
Ha.
Go write a profile.

IH:
Maybe I already am.

DJSL:
That’ll be the day.

IH:
I’ll let you know how it goes.

DJSL:
Do that.
Later.

IH:
Later.

DJSL:
No, but seriously. Five?

IH:
Dude. Just fucking deal with it.

It seems like everywhere you look, everybody is always saying “No”.

Everybody’s saying “can’t”, or “don’t”, or “shouldn’t”.

No Smoking.

No Trespassing.

No Parking.

Keep off the grass.

Stay out of the fountain.

Use your ten-centimetre voice.

Don’t kiss and tell.

She’s out of your league.

There are rules for driving, rules for cycling, rules for public behaviour.  But, the Entrance Bay Campground, just south of Cultus Lake, on the other hand, the weekend after Canada Day, was a place without rules.  And it was there, amongst that lawless sea of tents and campervans, that Leon and I pulled up in his thirdhand Geo Metro on a gorgeous Friday afternoon.

It had been, in every sense, a last-minute decision.  After the fallout surrounding the Steph debacle, my confidence was at an all-time low, and I wanted nothing more than to get as far from the city of Vancouver as I could, so, in a moment of whimsy, Leon and I packed up a cheap tent, a couple of Wal-Mart sleeping bags, and departed in search of adventure.

And, apparently, we weren’t the only ones.
The long weekend, it seemed, combined with reasonable temperatures and a dedication to celebrating our nation’s birthday had made the campground an utter madhouse.
It was filled to capacity, with people of all ages. Grandparents.  Babies.  Teenagers.  Wholesome suburban families coexisting with reams of half-naked, screeching twentysomethings playing ‘Boxhead’ and strip-poker. “HAPPY CANADA WEEKEND!!” an obnoxious, red-and-white banner read, at the entrance to the grounds.

Now, I’m going to take this moment to make a potentially embarrassing admission: the mania surrounding Canada Day has always been something of a mystery to me. While I enjoy a good party as well as anyone, and I’m extremely proud of my country, it has always been somewhat unnerving to see our nation’s heritage distilled down to six-packs of Molson, high-fives, and the desire to fashion our country’s flag into a cape.

But, despite my reservations, the reckless abandon of the site was simply overwhelming, and, in that moment, intoxicated by the possibilities, I made a vow:  this weekend, I would drink heroic amounts of alcohol. I would engage in sloppy makeouts with women I didn’t know. I would take a stranger to my tent, and have cheap, meaningless sex with her.  I would do all of this for the simple reason that I never had. All my life I’d been following the rules, and so, this weekend, I was determined to break them all.  I was launching Ian Hannon V2.0, and nothing was going to stop me this time.

The following morning, after breakfast, reconnaissance, and the consumption of several beers, Leon and I were ready to explore.  As I stood at the edge of our tent, thoughtfully slugging back a drink, I was approached by an inebriated fellow wearing boardshorts, a red foam hat, Canadian-flag sunglasses, and, most curiosly of all, a single woman’s shoe.  As our eyes met, he thrust his arms skyward, opened his mouth, and shouted: “Whoooooo!”

“Whoooooo!” Leon and I replied.

His face lit up.

“WHOOOOOOO!” he cried, and then wandered off, satisfied that, apparently, we had engaged in some form of meaningful communication.

Naturally, I was tickled pink.  I hadn’t experienced behaviour this stimulating since the Olympics.

As we began to stroll toward the beach, I caught my first glimpse of our closest neighbours, a trio of numbingly attractive blondes in a 5-person luxury tent.  They smiled and waved, and I, in my infinite charm and grace, attempted a grin, and then spent the next solid minute staring at the ground.

We made our way to the beach, slugging back beer, and picking our way through the mass of people, attempting to find somewhere to sit.  Eventually, drinks still conspicuously exposed, we found an empty spot on a log next to a family of four.

“Happy Canada Day, guys!” I exclaimed.

“Uh, you too,” replied the father, a stern, shirtless man in his forties.  His wife and children played close-by.

“You guys having a good weekend so far?”

“Um.  Yes.  Yes, we are.”

“Cool!  Glad to hear it!  Hey, is it cool if we sit here?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

**********

We spent the rest of the afternoon simply wandering the grounds, exploring the beach, and stopping to have encounters with the hundreds of people we encountered.  There were simply too many distractions; too many friendly inebriates, too many drinking games to be played, too many illegal narcotics to purchase and consume, in some attempt at societal rebellion.  This weekend, I was breaking all the rules, starting, apparently, with any pertaining to sobriety.  By the time we reached our tent, I was exuberant. A beer in each hand, system loaded with a combination of narcotics I dare not name, a maple leaf tattoo on each cheek.  The world was warm and twinkling, my steps were less than steady, and, it was in this state that I met Alexis.

She was one of our impossibly-attractive neighbours from the 5-person tent; blonde, petite, bubbly, a girl who the words “out of my league” don’t even begin to describe. The three of them seemed to be having a wonderful time as Leon and I approached, having produced a picnic table from God-knows-where, and immersed themselves in a rousing game of Beer Pong, which, for the uninitiated, is played thusly:

“Hiiiiiiii!” they shouted as we approached.

“Hey guys,” I grinned, adding, with private shame, “Pound it.”

“I’m Alexis,” said the blonde.

“Well, Alexis, you know you guys have your picnic table on our property,” I replied, mock-serious, “and that’s totally uncool.”

She giggled.

“I guess you’ll have to play with us, then!”

“I dunno,” I replied, eyebrow raised, “I’m pretty awesome at Beer Pong. I need to know you guys are up to the challenge.”

They cackled fiercely.

“We’ll see about that!” Alexis shrieked, “bring it on!”

“How did you do that?” Leon mouthed, and from then on, things get rather hazy.

“One of these days, man,” I shouted, in mid-scrap, “you’re going down.”

After the third round, my memory becomes notoriously sloppy, a fact not helped by the copious amounts of party drugs coursing through me.  The remainder of this account is pieced together from the testimony of witnesses nearly as intoxicated as I was, and through the aid of poorly-composed photographs that I hope never get released to the public.

It is around this point that, according to witnesses, Leon, in the depth of considerable crapulence himself, cried:

“Let’s hit the beach!”

Alexis grabbed my shirt-front.  Or, my shoulder, according to some accounts; apparently, by this time, the whereabouts of my shirt were questionable, at best.

“Just one more round.”

I allegedly waved at Leon and the girls, saying something that sounded suspiciously similar to: “we’ll be there in a sec”, and then returned to the table for another round.

Suffice to say, we never finished the game.

I remember very little of the events that followed, save for the fact that, at some indeterminate point afterward, we got into an actual mock-battle.  Jump-kicks and fake Kung-Fu moves.  We laughed, and showed off our toughness, eventually grappling over some imagined slight.  Our faces were almost touching as we wrestled back and forth, and then, somehow, all of a sudden, we were kissing.  It’s possible that I initiated it, I’m not sure, but, somewhere up there, I was sure I could hear DJ StrangeLove cackling.

It worked after all.

“Did you want to check out the inside of your sweet tent?” I asked, lamely.

And, for the first time that weekend, somebody said “Yes”.

I awoke the following morning, face-down on the floor of the tent; nauseous, sweating, incoherent, still in the grip of last night’s booze and drugs.  But I had done it.

My first one-night stand.

For the first time in my life, I’d engaged in cheap, meaningless sex with a stranger.  I reached down into myself, searching for the sense of accomplishment that I was certain would follow, but, to my surprise, found no such thing.  Instead, there was only a deep and puzzling emptiness.  And it was then that I discovered the downside to meaningless sex: that, well, it’s pretty meaningless.

This was a totally unexpected result given that she was the single best-looking woman whose genitals had ever touched my own.  As I stumbled back to my tent, in addition to the worsening hangover, I began to feel rather horrible about the whole thing (a mindset made all the more horrible by the realization that a used condom was still stuck to my leg, and I hadn’t noticed for close to an hour).  What a rip-off, I thought.  So much of our society, our advertising, our everything is geared toward this ideal of purely physical intercourse.  And yet, when it happens, other than the merest sense of masculine pride, it’s barely rewarding at all.  What a total crock of shit.

Later, when I awoke from a deep coma, Alexis had gone.  Vanished back to wherever she came from.  Perhaps she was ashamed.  Or, maybe, she just felt the same as I did.

Leon and I passed the drive home in silence.

I pondered the weekend, the city, my uncertain future.  Sure, I’d had a one-night stand. I’d broken a bunch of rules.  Though, it occurred to me that, perhaps, the rules in question weren’t society’s at all, but my own.  I wasn’t doing this to sleep with random strangers.  I was doing it for my own personal growth, to overcome a lifetime of social anxiety, to become a better human being, to prepare myself, so that on the day when I met the love of my life, I’d be ready for her. But rather than working toward that goal, I was instead simply flailing in the dark, wheeling about like a man set on fire. As much as it pained me to admit, I still had absolutely no idea what I was doing.  It was as though, after everything that had happened, I was starting all over again.

It was a terrible feeling.

Then, I remembered the look of her naked.

“You okay?” Leon asked, after awhile.

I grinned.

“Hell yes.”

A plant, and a magazine article.

Before everything went to hell, before the angry messages, and the hurt feelings, it was just me, my cozy apartment, and a girl.  A girl with deep brown eyes and sandy hair, and a nose that wrinkled when she laughed.

Her name was Steph.

She was cute.  She was fun.  She was my first real success.  And, most surprising and novel of all, she was actually into me. Naturally, I was suspicious at first, since I’d only been at this dating thing for a little over a month, but at the same time, the attention was intoxicating.

The first few weeks of a new relationship are often the most exciting.  Your sense of infatuation with the other person is so intense, so complete, that it tends to eclipse other less important needs, such as food, sleep, or gainful employment.  They are some heinous narcotic, a phantasm that dominates one’s every waking thought.

Will she call me?

Does she still like me?

Is she still attracted to me?

Did I blow it?

One spends nearly as much time in the grip of complete anxiety as in the throes of lust.

It was perfect while it lasted.  Such a shame it didn’t last for long.

Weeks had passed since my blowout with DJ StrangeLove.

I’d heard little from him in that time, save for a single, terse email which read: “So often, our lives are just a collection of the same few stupid mistakes. Learn from yours,” which I summarily ignored.

I’d also refused to submit a chapter to the magazine for close to a month.

I attended several meetings (and ditched out on several more) with the Dependent editors, to discuss shutting down the Single Guy series altogether.

“Maybe I could write about what it’s like to be in a committed relationship,” I suggested, but could tell from the dark looks in their eyes that the confessions of a guy who was neither lonely nor single was about as popular as a history of the hubcap.

It was just as well, really.  I didn’t want to write about my relationship.  I didn’t want to write about our sex-life, or what we did on Fridays, or how often we saw each other.  All I wanted was for the whole thing to just go away.  I simply couldn’t reconcile seeing Steph with continuing the piece.  Maybe we’d move in together one day, I thought.  Share an apartment.  Perhaps buy a few plants.  Certainly that was enough.

So, I told them, as politely as I possibly could, that Confessions was over, or at least on indefinite hiatus.

“Have you told her you’re writing these, yet?” one of them asked.

“Uh, no.”

He snorted.

“You might want to.  If she finds out on her own, she’ll be pissed.”

I agreed, and then promptly changed the subject.

*******

The following afternoon, I decided to clean my apartment.

Which is why, in a final gesture of emancipation from Maggie, I threw away the Ponytail Palm.

Which is how I wrecked my back.

The plan to remove it was perfect. Unfortunately, I hadn’t planned on the fact that plant and pot collectively weighed roughly eighteen billion pounds.  That, along with the fact that the aforementioned back tends to go out at the slightest provocation, like, say, opening the refrigerator, or finishing a sentence, combined to make certain I spent a good portion of the next few days on the couch.

Steph, bless her heart, ministered to me in my pain.  She brought soup, food, painkillers, general words of encouragement.  And, on one particular visit, in the midst of her ministrations, she caught a glance of my computer screen.

“The Dependent?  What’s this?” she asked.

I gagged quietly.

As it turned out, in my near-paralytic state, I’d attempted to do some work for the site, and then, too doped-up on leftover soup and painkillers, had completely forgotten to sign out afterward.

“Oh, uh, nothing,” I replied, “I do a little work for an online magazine.”

“Oh,” she replied, ”I didn’t know that.  I should check it out.”

In that moment, I weighed my options.

It certainly seemed a good time to come clean.  I’d been close to telling her on several other occasions, but had always, terrified of the fallout, lost my nerve.  And, naturally, the longer I went without confessing, the more difficult it became to bring up.  If I told her now, she would break up with me.  There was no question in my mind.  We’d been seeing each other for more than a month.  If there had been a time to have that conversation, I’d already pussied out and missed it long ago.

So, I did my best to brush it off, dismiss it, and then silently hoped to God she wouldn’t follow it up.

The week stretched on, and soon enough, I was back on my feet.  Working.  Writing.  Having beers with Leon.

“So, have you told her yet?” he asked.

“Uh, no.”

“If she finds out on her own, she’ll be pissed.”

“That seems to be the consensus.”

“Is it just me,” Leon mused, “or does Steph kind of remind you of Maggie?”

At the time, I ignored him, but later in the evening, as I trundled home on my bicycle, I began to wonder.

Was she really that much like Maggie?  Was I stuck in some kind of dating pattern that I was doomed to repeat for all eternity?  Did we all just choose the same people over and over again, or let them choose us?

I spent the night mired in anxiety.

The whole thing- the articles, the approaches, the training- it had all been borne out of a desire for personal growth.  For weeks, I’d gone against my own beliefs; for weeks, I’d made a fool of myself in front of scores of women and hundreds of internet readers in the hopes that, I would eventually have something to show for it.  But what use were the sacrifices I’d made if there was no growth? If I was still doing the same thing I always did?

So often, our lives are just a collection of the same mistakes.

But, was personal growth a good enough reason to call off a perfectly good relationship?  In spite of it all, I still liked this girl.

Later on, as one does when faced with problems one has no hope of solving, I called my mother.

“I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, honey,” she said, “after all, your ideals have always been something you’re committed to, even when you’re afraid.”

Under the circumstances, this made me feel entirely rotten, but I emerged from that phone-call with a new sense of priorities:

I would call Steph, and confess the truth.  Even if it meant it was over.  Even if it meant she’d never speak to me again.  She deserved that much.  I could no longer let fear stand in the way of my progress.  I would do the right thing, and let the chips fall where they may.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried.

By this point, it was out of my hands anyway.

*********

The following morning, I was awoken by a phone-call:

I threw the sheets from the bed, grabbed my nearby laptop, and sure enough, there it was; a comment, plain as hate, at the bottom of Chapter 10:

“Wow, thanks for at least not using my real name in your stories.  Super glad to see that I aided you in your social experiment… you’re an asshole.”

The rest of the day was spent with eyes bulging and heart pounding; trying to get ahold of her by phone, email, text-message.

Nothing.

Nothing, save for a single response, several hours later which read: “Never speak to me again.”

I was wracked with guilt.

And, as much as I wanted to blame The Dependent, or DJ StrangeLove, or Maggie, or practically anybody else I could think of (Stephen Harper came to mind a few times, but I couldn’t make it stick), in the end, I knew that the blame sat squarely on my shoulders.  I’d known what I was doing.  I had been dishonest from the beginning.  I had entered into the relationship under false pretenses, betrayed my own principles, and, in the end, this was nobody’s fault but my own.

I wondered if she was okay.

I wondered how long it would be before she trusted a man again, or whether she’d spend the rest of her life looking for Ian Hannons and DJ StrangeLoves around every corner.

The only thing worse than the knowledge that another person hates you is the knowledge that you deserve it.

For more than a week, I stewed in my wrongdoing.

I didn’t go out.

I didn’t see my friends.

I wrote long, eloquent apology emails, and never sent them.

Then, I simply opened up my laptop, gritted my teeth, and watched the fallout unfold: Steph, a few anonymous commenters, someone calling themselves Edward Morales. In a laughable turn of events, even mediocre LA Pickup Teacher and professional slimeball David D’Angelo (or one of his roughly 80 internet marketers) weighed in, declaring DJ StrangeLove and I sociopaths, which might have even been insulting if it hadn’t seemed like such a desperate attempt at market presence.

So often, our lives are just a collection of the same few stupid mistakes.  Learn from yours.

So, after nearly a month of noncommunication, I called The Dependent editors.

“It’s me,” I said, flatly, “ I’m back in.”

I paused for a moment, before adding: “But from now on, we’re doing this my way.”

I screened his calls, deleted his emails, ignored his text-messages.

And, for a minute, I almost felt bad.

But only for a minute.

I figured that, after a few days, he’d just give up, stop calling, and go back to taking jacuzzi baths in the middle of the day, or having large amounts of strenuous intercourse with women other than his girlfriend, or whatever else it was he did.

During that time, I saw Steph almost every day.

It was new.

It was familiar.

It was comfortable.

We watched movies, cooked dinner, made love.

Another week went by.

DJ StrangeLove wasn’t giving up.  He would email me advice, unsolicited.  He would ask questions about rumours he’d heard through friends.

And finally, one evening, three weeks after I’d severed all communication, I opened my apartment door, to find him standing in the hallway.

“Ian,” he deadpanned, “what the fuck?”

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

His timing was monumentally bad.

“Dude, I can’t talk now.  I’ve got somebody coming for dinner in fifteen minutes.”

I began to sweat.  It was 5:15.  Steph usually got off work at a little past four, and made her way by bus to my place by 5:30.

After realizing that Steph was somebody I actually wanted to date, rather than simply a one-night-stand, I’d been living with the constant nagging fear that she would one day discover my online articles(even at one point begging The Dependent editors to take them down), and, as a result, DJ StrangeLove’s presence in my apartment when she got there wasn’t something I wasn’t particularly eager to explain.

He forced a smile.

“Really?  Because I’ve got all night.”

We were silent as DJ StrangeLove entered the apartment, and, without asking, settled onto the couch.  I remained standing, arms folded, affecting a tense lean against the refrigerator.

“So,” he sighed, “what’s up with you and Steph?”

“Nothing.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s good.”

He winked.

“How’s the sex?”

“That’s none of your business.”

DJ StrangeLove sat forward, his eyes flashing with anger.

“You’ve got an awful lot of attitude for a guy who’s getting laid because of me.”

I felt my cheeks flush.

“That’s not what happened.  You just gave me some ideas.  I took what you said, and made it my own.”

The clock on the wall read: 5:22.

Steph was due to arrive in less than ten minutes.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” I said, trying my damndest to control the tremor in my voice, “I need you to go.  I’m expecting someone.”

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

He snorted derisively, leaning back against the couch.

“Yeah?  Well, I’m not leaving here until we’ve sorted this out, so you better talk fast.  Either that, or we can take it up with her.”

5:23.

Suddenly, I felt my shoulders stiffen, and an electric rage surge through me.

“Fine.  You want me to be straight with you?  I’ll be straight with you: I quit.”

DJ StrangeLove sighed.

“Ian, don’t be stupid.  Don’t push me out of your life because you think I’m the bad guy.  Don’t act like you’re suddenly superior just because you have a girlfriend.  You’re no prince.  You knew what you were doing when you picked her up.  Nobody put a gun to your head.  I’m not stepping in the way of True Love.  You just saw something familiar, and you grabbed onto it as tight as you could, because you’re fucking terrified.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” I shouted, “you’re just a low-rent version of The Game.”

DJ StrangeLove leapt to his feet.  When he spoke, his voice was deep and intense.  Apparently, I’d touched a nerve.

“Yeah, I’ve read ‘The Game’. But, you know what?  I’ve read a lot of books.  Books on sales and persuasion.  Books on animal behaviour.  Books on criminal psychology, for Christ’s sake.  I’ve been practicing this shit for years. Picking up women isn’t about lines and routines.  It’s about understanding the principles behind them.  Learning how to wind your timepiece doesn’t make you a watchmaker.  So don’t sit there and pretend you understand my methods.  You don’t understand shit. You quit now, all you’ve done is buy a nice pair of pants, and used a couple of another guy’s lines.  Every pickup artist in the world uses the same principles.  They just name them differently.”

“I told you, I don’t want to be a pickup artist!” I roared, ”I’ve told you that a dozen fucking times, and you never fucking listen!  You want to know what you’ve taught me?  All you’ve taught me is how to betray what I believe in!”

5:27.

My cheeks were now hot with rage now, my heart pounding.  It was all I could do not to leap across the couch and begin pounding him to death with my fists.  It’s entirely possible that I would have tried (and, likely, failed, given my wholesale pugilistic ineptitude), however, at that moment, my phone rang.

We both stood, looking stupidly at it, unsure of how to proceed.

Finally, somewhat lamely, DJ StrangeLove said:

“Okay. Time Out.”

It was Steph.  She was going to be ten minutes late.  I conversed as pleasantly as I could manage, and, when I hung up again, DJ StrangeLove was looking at me with his hands raised in surrender.

“Ian,” he said, “I need to be honest with you for a second.”

And here, his pitch dropped.  He abandoned all of the characteristic bravado and mannerisms that seemed to define him, and sounded, for the first time since we’d met, like a regular person.

“I understand why you’re doing this,” he said, quietly, “it’s the same reason I started doing it.  And, I’m not going to lie to you: there are days when you’ll feel like a bad person.  But, in the end, you have to put what you think of as ‘morality’ on hold.  Not because it’ll get you laid, or make you more popular, but because you have to, in order to learn.  You can’t learn anything, whether it’s basketball, or playing the guitar, without practice.  In order to be competent at something, you have to repeat the process hundreds of times.  It’s no different with this.  And, potentially, you will sleep with a lot of women.  Because the only way you can practice stuff like this, is to do it.  There’s no simulator for this.  I’ll never ask you to hook up with somebody you don’t respect.  But I will ask you to open your eyes.  Let go of your preconceptions about dating, sex, relationships.  Say ‘yes’ to things you might’ve avoided.  Because, one day, the love of your life will walk through the door.  And, when she does, you’d better hope to fuck you’ve practiced enough that you don’t screw it up.”

There was a hint of regret in his voice.

“We’re more similar than you think, Ian.  Hell, in my own way, I’m probably more neurotic than you are.”

His shoulders sagged.

And, in that moment, I saw in him the friendless virgin he’d been so many years before.  The lonely boy who’d had no choice but to sit down and learn to socialize from a stack of books, who had, like me, watched hundreds of girls pass him by simply because he couldn’t find the right words to say.

And again, for a moment, I almost felt bad.  But, at this point, he was already so far past the line, it didn’t matter.  He’d shoehorned himself back into my life, despite being both unsolicited and unwanted, he’d threatened to reveal me in my own apartment. And besides, the man was so gifted in social manipulation, how could I ever trust a single word he said?

“You don’t know anything about me,” I spat, “to you, I’m this little experiment.  This trophy you can laugh about with your friends.  Cute little Ian with all his cute little failures.  Well, fuck you.”

“Ian-”

He stood, and I shoved him roughly toward the door.

“And fuck your System.  Fuck your thumbs up, and your conversation-starters.  I’m done.  Now, get the fuck out of here.”

He stopped resisting as we approached the threshold.

“You’re fucking retarded,” he spat, wandering off down the hallway.

“Yeah, I think I’d give this conversation about one-and-a-half thumbs down,” I shouted after him.  “Pound it.”

Then, I slammed the door, and it was the last I saw of DJ StrangeLove in a very long time.

A moment later, I met Steph by the front door of the restaurant, going through the now-familiar motions that The System dictated: the knuckle-pound, the one-and-a-half-thumbs-up, the playful shoves, the casual touches to condition an appropriate kinesthetic response. It felt less like genuine social interaction, and more like some bizarre science experiment; that, or a perverse urban reinterpretation of Groundhog Day.

I could taste bile in the back of my throat. As I’d said to DJ StrangeLove, I really liked this girl, and the idea that I was hitting her with a bunch of prepared routines made me feel, simply put, like a big, raging sphincter. Why couldn’t I just be myself?  Make your affections worth something?  What was wrong with just doing something nice for a woman? Why did I have to turn my interactions into transactions? Why did I need a bunch of routines and expressions and so-called Science?  I liked this girl.

Shouldn’t that be enough?

Steph seemed distant as we talked. Her responses were lukewarm, her body-language closed-off, her knuckle-pound hopelessly flaccid. It was as if she’d invited me out, and then spent the next eighteen hours regretting it. My failures from the previous date swirled around in my head: the panic in the Panini shop, the awkward kiss in the hallway, the four-and-a-half minutes of outright boobery in my apartment.

“You look nice,” I stammered.

“Thanks.”

Her response was flat.

“Here. Let me get that for you,” I said, reaching for the door.

She forced a thin smile.

“No, I’ve got it.”

Make your affections worth something.

And, I realized, in that moment, that if I didn’t follow DJ StrangeLove’s advice, I could lose her forever.

So, trying to keep my voice level, and free of self-loathing, I said:

“Listen, man, this better be good. If it’s just a table full of girls, I’m leaving.”

Suddenly, she wheeled around and grabbed my arm, fixing her face into a mock-pleading expression. Gone were the dismissive gestures, the closed-off body-language.

“Come on,” she said, “you’ll be fine. And I’ll totally owe you. I’m only staying for one drink anyway.”

So, it was official: it worked.

DJ StrangeLove was right.

As much as it burned me to admit it, the bastard was right again. The proof was right there; with only a few well-placed words, despite my exhaustive donkey-fuck of a first-date, she’d actually fought for me to stay.

“Besides,” Steph laughed, “I just got over that throat thing.”

I stopped in mid-step.

“Throat thing?”

“Yeah. What a relief. I was worried it was laryngitis or something.”

A moment later, I was in the restaurant bathroom, texting DJ StrangeLove.

As I squatted, fully-clothed, over the toilet-seat, the phone rang.

“Well, fuck me,” DJ StrangeLove screamed into the reciever, “you may actually have a shot.”

“What do I do?”

“Say you have a party later, so you can only stay for one drink.”

“What?”

“You can’t look desperate, so tell her you have somewhere to go.”

“But I don’t.”

“Of course not. But that way, when you do end up staying, it’s because she ‘won you over’. She worked for it.”

“I don’t want to lie to her.”

“Just trust me. Six hours from now, when she’s in your bed, and she sits up and goes: ‘how did I get here?’ you’ll be thanking me.”

“I’m not cool with this.”

“Do it.”

“I won’t.”

“Ian.”

“No, man, That’s not how I roll.”

“Listen,” DJ StrangeLove hissed, “I’m going to tell you something: you suck with chicks. Like, a lot. I’ve seen you. It’s painful. I, on the other hand, do not suck with chicks. They like me. They hang out with me. They do things to my penis on a regular basis. So, what do you say you shut the fuck up and listen to me for once?”

“Fuck this,” I spat, and hung up the phone.

Who the hell did he think he was?

Two hours, and three drinks later, Steph and I stumbled from the restaurant.

“So…” she asked, holding my arm for support, ”what’s your night looking like?”

“Well, I really should get to my buddy’s birthday,” I replied, again filled with a substantial dose of self-loathing.

But again, the oddest thing happened.

She drew closer. She nudged my arm, and said, a playful grin skittering across her face:

“Or, you could come downtown with me.”

So, two things were official: it worked, and I was an asshole.

“For what?” I asked, my voice heavy with mock-suspicion.

“I need to top by work for a sec, so this artist can hang some pieces.”

“Well, only if it’s tons of fun,” I said, gravely, “I only do things that are super-awesome.”

She tried to keep from grinning.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You totally tricked me into this.”

She winked.

“Well, you tricked me into your house last time, so I guess that makes us even.”

The ‘sec’ at the coffee shop ended up being close to an hour, but I didn’t mind. Steph spent that time snuggled up close to me, head on my shoulder, her earlier reservations clearly blown away by my superior Dating Skills. But, try as I might, no matter how close we were, I couldn’t summon the nerve to kiss her.

“The cardinal rule when it comes to kissing a woman,” DJ StrangeLove had said, “is: don’t leave it ‘til the end of the night.”

I began to panic.

“Is there a bathroom around here?” I asked.

Steph pointed, and, a moment later, I squatted above yet another toilet-seat, frantically texting: “NEED KISS TACTICS” into my phone.

I emerged from the bathroom with purpose. However, when I returned to the shop, Steph already had her coat and hat on.

“Want to grab something to eat?” she smiled.

I forced a chuckle, and watched my chance of kissing her vanish all over again. Why did anyone bother to date at all, I wondered. It was so exhausting.

“Uh, sure,” I stammered, “what are you into?”

Her face clouded.

“I don’t have a lot of choices downtown.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, because I’m a vegeterian.”

And, in that moment, I think I fell in love with her.

“So am I,” I breathed.

The mood was light as we walked in search of Falafel; talking, laughing, our hands “accidentally” brushing one another, which I, in my infinite conceit, took as something of a good sign.

And I enjoyed her, the very essence of her being so much, that, there and then, I decided to chuck the whole thing.

The System.

DJ StrangeLove.

The knuckle-pounds, the one-and-a-half-thumbs-up, the kinesthetic response training. I would leave it all behind.

I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it. Fuck DJ StrangeLove and his “Ian, you really suck with chicks,” and his stupid routines, no matter how well they might have worked. I just wanted to lie with her under the stars.

But, before I did, there was one final matter to attend to:

The Kiss.

In my estimation (and I think modern science would back me up, here), to a modern, North American man, the circumstances surrounding a first-kiss are basically the most difficult to arrange out of anything that has ever transpired in the history of human civilization.

How do you get close enough?

Do you go in slowly and quietly? Under the radar, like Patton might have done?

Or quick and deadly, like Bruce Lee?

If it was right, it was funny, sexy, cute, something she could someday tell her grandkids.

If it was wrong, it was something she’d only tell her girlfriends.

“Don’t leave it ‘til the end of the night.”

And now, things were winding down. We’d finished our Falafel. Had another couple of drinks. We were getting ready to leave the restaurant, and my chances were running out.

It had to happen.

If I ever wanted to see this girl again, it simply had to.

And soon.

And, as much as it burned me, as much as I wanted out, I knew there was only one man who could help me.

I was Pacino in the Godfather: “Just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

I paced the bathroom, informing DJ StrangeLove of my failings, and asking, one last time, for advice.  A moment later, the response came in:

I was quiet as I walked Steph to the bus-stop, my mind running through every possible scenario.

“Are you okay?” Steph asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, you’re going to the bathroom a lot.”

Certainly not the opportune moment I’d been hoping for.

We stood in silence, Steph checking the stop times, me discreetly vomiting in my mouth. Then, finally, after a minute of mental agony, I reached out my hand, and pulled at her purse-strap. She smiled, and stepped back to stand beside me. Her head went onto my shoulder. I weighed the possibilities of chin-pull vs. throat-line.

Which was superior in this situation?

Which was Grandkids Material vs. Girlfriends Material?

Or, could I, perhaps, have both?

Heart pounding, I reached under her chin, and turned it toward me.

Our eyes met. She smiled nervously.

“What?”

“Well, I’d really like to kiss you,” I said, “but, you know, I have this throat thing.”

And just like that, she was back at my place.

We spent the next several hours savagely making out, surfacing occasionally for air, or, if the mood struck us, to have a conversation.

“Ian,” she giggled, attempting to smooth out her touseled hair, “this is crazy. How did I even get here?”

The bastard was right again.

Just then, I heard an incessant buzzing from my phone.

It was DJ StrangeLove.

“Who is that?” Steph asked, rolling over.

“Nobody.”

“Do you need to call them back?”

I grinned.

“Absolutely not.”

And without a moment’s hesitation, I switched the phone off.

3:12 AM

DJSL:
You’re up late.

IH:
I know.

DJSL:
What’s up?

IH:
Nothing.

DJSL:
So, you’re downloading porn.

IH:
What?
I’m not downloading porn.
Why would you even think that?

DJSL:
You’re on the internet and it’s 3AM.

IH:
So? So are you. What are YOU doing?

DJSL:
Downloading porn.

IH:
What do you want?

DJSL:
Read your article.

IH:
I don’t want to talk about it.

DJSL:
You okay?

IH:
I haven’t left my apartment in three days. Except for work, or when driven from my lair by hunger.

DJSL:
She call you?

IH:
No.

DJSL:
She won’t.

IH:
Really?

DJSL:
I don’t know. Was she handicapped?

IH:
?
No, she wasn’t handicapped.

DJSL:
Then, she won’t call.
Now, let’s debrief.

IH:
Not now.

DJSL:
Mistake number one: no context. You panicked because she wasn’t hungry. But who gives a fuck if she’s hungry? You’re a strong, confident man. If you’re hungry, eat. Don’t fold like a cheap tent the second she presents a dissenting opinion.
Now, mistake number two: bad kiss tactic. The cardinal rule when it comes to kissing a woman is simple: Don’t leave it ‘til the end. That’s amateur.

IH:
When do I do it, then?

DJSL:
Whenever it comes up. And your job as a man, is to make sure it does. Because, if that first kiss is awkward, you won’t get a second chance. That’s why getting physical early is key.
Every single thing you do with a woman over the course of the night should be building toward that kiss. It’s not just a thing you do, it’s another waypoint on a journey you started the minute you met her.
It’s a question of building your kinesthetic responses to the point where kissing isn’t a big deal. Get her comfortable with your touch. Get her comfortable being close to you. If it feels like a big deal, it’s probably going to be.
Start closing the physical distance, bit by bit. Once she’s comfortable with the two of you being face-to-face, and doesn’t flinch, or get nervous, she’s probably not going to mind if you kiss her. If she’s not at that point yet, you know it’s not the right time.
Then, all you have to do is make your move.
My favourite was always to get her into a play-fight. You know, start wrestling and grappling over some imagined slight, and then, when you’re close, just start kissing her. BAM. Kinesthetic Response Traning.

IH:
That works?

DJSL:
You always ask me that.
Yes, it works.

IH:
I don’t know if I could do that. I really liked this girl. I respected her. And, if I respect somebody, I want to treat them with respect. Not just a notch in my bedpost.
And the fact that she didn’t sleep with me actually makes me respect her more.

DJSL:
Just because she didn’t fall onto your bed the minute you took her to your place isn’t grounds for respect. It just means she isn’t a fucking moron. You want to know why you didn’t get laid this weekend?
You didn’t DESERVE it.
Sorry man. You didn’t.
And this ties into the other important thing you need to learn:
making your affections have WORTH.

IH:
?

DJSL:
If you’re trying to get her into bed right away, without even knowing her, how much is your interest worth?
Dick.
Nobody gives a shit about things they don’t have to work for. That’s why the army has boot-camp, why fraternities have hazing rituals. If you want to sleep with somebody, you have to make your affection worth something.
It’s what average folks call: “Playing Hard-to-Get”.
Don’t give anything away for free. If she wants something from you, make sure it comes at a price. The prices can be small, like getting her to say ‘please’; just as long as it’s something. Trust me, man: perfect this, and you’ll be getting laid all over the place.

IH:
I told you, I’m not sure if I want that.
I’m not a sleazebag. I don’t want to sleep with every person I meet. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I don’t want to check my morals at the door.

DJSL:
I don’t have a problem with morality, Ian, but I do have a problem with you using it as a crutch. You can have casual sex with someone you respect. Hell, I wouldn’t recommend having it with anybody else. You’re confusing casual sex with meaningless sex. I’ll never advocate sleeping with someone you don’t at least respect. If that isn’t there, you won’t enjoy it.
Period.

IH:
I just don’t think I can fuck this girl and forget about her. That’s just not how I roll.

DJSL:
Awful lot of gun-jumping going on here for a girl you haven’t even properly kissed.

IH:
What the hell was that?

DJSL:
It’s a robot.

IH:
Yeah, but how do you even do that?

DJSL:
It’s a secret.

IH:
Fuck you. Tell me.

DJSL:
Say ‘please’.

IH:
.
Please.

DJSL:
See? Now my response is worth something.

IH:
Fuck you.

DJSL:
You can fuck yourself with that attitude.

IH:
You really don’t think she’ll call?

DJSL:
No, man.

IH:
She won’t?

DJSL:
She won’t.

IH:
Um.
Holy shit.

DJSL:
What?

IH:
She’s calling.

DJSL:
What? Now?

IH:
Fuck.

DJSL:
Don’t pick it up.

IH:
I won’t.

IH:
Okay…

DJSL:
She actually called you?

IH:
I’m going to check the message.
Brb.

DJSL:
So?

IH:
She wants to hang out.

DJSL:
What?

IH:
She says she’s going downtown for a friend’s birthday tomorrow, and she wants me to come out for a drink.
What should I do?

DJSL:
Say ‘Yes’.

IH:
Okay.

DJSL:
Fuck.
I can’t believe it.
Tell her she should meet you for a bite beforehand.

IH:
It’s hard to find places to eat in this town.

DJSL:
No it isn’t. They’re everywhere.

IH:
Not for me.

DJSL:
Why?

IH:
I told you before: I’m a vegetarian.

DJSL:
Well, figure something out.

IH:
Should we make another Date-Plan?

DJSL:
No.
You’re basically going in blind, so, if you have questions during the date, just shoot me a text message.
I’m sort of busy tomorrow night, but I’ve got your back.

IH:
Plans?

DJSL:
Her name’s Tammy.

IH:
I don’t want to know.

DJSL:
My lady really likes her.

IH:
Do you guys do this kind of thing a lot?

DJSL:
What?

IH:
Be swingers, or whatever?

DJSL:
Don’t be so vanilla.

IH:
Well, you seem to have a lot of girls in your life other than your girlfriend.

DJSL:
Yep.

IH:
Is she with other guys at the same time?

DJSL:
Yep.

IH:
Same room?

DJSL:
Uh-huh.

IH:
Fuck.
So… when you’re in a situation or whatever, when there’s two guys and two girls, do you guys ever touch dicks?

DJSL:
.
What?

IH:
Nothing.

DJSL:
Are you serious?

IH:
Forget I said anything.

DJSL:
I think that’s best.

IH:
Gotta go. Early shift at work.

DJSL:
So, you’re finished downloading.

IH:
Fuck off.

DJSL:
Just keep in touch about tomorrow night.

IH:
Dude. Do you actually want me to text you during the date?

DJSL:
Yes.

IH:
Fuck.

DJSL:
You won’t regret it.

IH:
I regret it already.

DJSL:
Just remember: make your affections WORTH SOMETHING.

IH:
I gotta go.

DJSL:
Me, too.
I’ve got another appointment.
You know, touching dicks.

IH:
I’m really getting sick of that shark.

Palms clammy, I pulled the paper copy of my Date Plan from my pocket, unfolded it and glanced down for a quick refresher:

The truth was, I didn’t need the help.

I’d been up until three o’clock the previous morning, drilling it, and I’d been awake since 9 AM showering, choosing my outfit, shaving my face, cleaning the squalor-pit that is my apartment, and in a slightly shameful display of wholesale gun-jumping, doing a considerable amount of grooming to my nether-regions.

And now, four hours later, there I was.

Moments away from my first actual date in two years.

“Ian!” she smiled, entering the coffee shop.

I inhaled deeply, wiped my palms on my jeans, and tried not to think of the hundreds of possible ways I could fuck this up.

“Hey, man!” I grinned, “pound it.”

And, from that moment forward, I was in the zone.

I have no idea how it happened, but for the next fifteen minutes, I was firing on cylinders I didn’t even know I had.

“Don’t be afraid do give her shit,” DJ StrangeLove had said.

So, when she gave me a knuckle-pound, I chastised her on how weak it was.

When she hesitated before jaywalking across Main Street, I joked that she wasn’t quite the rebel she said she’d be.

We were laughing, and flirting, giving each other playful shoves, the way I’d seen DJ StrangeLove do, and suddenly, I felt more powerful than I ever had in my life. From there, with the ice well and truly broken, it was a simple matter to stroll a block up Main, and commence with:

The shop was empty when we entered.

“This place is amazing,” I grinned, “best vintage store in town.”

Put as many clothes on her as you can.

Put as many clothes on her as you can.

“Hey, so can I put an outfit on you or something?”

A pause.

“Um.  I guess so.”

In the distance, I could hear DJ StrangeLove smack his forehead and cry: “Fuck’s sake!”

So much for “Don’t ask.  Tell.”

“Uh.  Never mind,” I stammered, “maybe I’ll just try something myself.”

She shrugged.

“Okay.”

Desperate, I grabbed the first shirt I saw, and threw it over my shoulders. It was only as I struggled to do up the buttons that I realized it was, in fact, a blouse.

For a twelve-year-old.

Steph began to laugh as I wrestled with the wretched thing, trying my best to close it around my chest.

“Foolish woman!” I bellowed, “this tiny shirt is no match for my huge body. I must find another, to better show off my hugeness.”

She could barely contain herself.  Her breath was coming in tiny gasps, and tears were forming in her eyes.

I sighed with relief.  Not a bad recovery (though nonetheless I could still hear the sound of distant forehead-smacking).  I tried on several more ridiculous shirts before turning to her and saying:

“What am I, your mannequin? Let’s dress you for a change.”

I took her to the headwear section, and began piling hat after hat upon her head.

“Hold on. Just hold still. Just a few more.”

She giggled, and pretended to look displeased.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Me? Whatever, man. You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll take you down right now.”

“Whatever.  I’d totally kick your ass.” she grinned.

“Okay, Half-Pint,” I chuckled, with mock bravado, “let’s take this outside right now. See who the bigger man is.”

Numerous playful shoves ensued, and a moment later (after a few more hats, and a weary sigh from the storeowner), we departed from the shop, to embark upon:

The walk to the Panini Shop was rife with shoving and flirting, and, when we walked in the door, I strode directly to the counter.

“What are you getting?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“Well, um…to be honest, I’m not really hungry.”

I froze.

Not hungry?

Fear swelled in my chest.

Now what?

In all the contingencies addressed in the Date Plan, it had never occurred to me to ask what to do if she wasn’t hungry.

“Oh. Uh. Really?” I asked, stupidly.

“No.  But, you should totally get something.”

I excused myself to the bathroom.

“She’s not hungry,” I frantically texted to DJ StrangeLove, “She’s. Not. Hungry.”

But he didn’t respond. And, after a few anxious moments of waiting, I had no choice but to proceed with:

“Yeah, so, I’m not really hungry, either,” I blurted, returning to the counter.

“What?”

“Uh, I just thought about it, and I’m totally okay.”

“Um…”

She looked at me in total confusion.

“What you really should do is come to my place, and check out some more of my pictures.”

“Oh.”

“And while we’re there, we could watch some Planet Earth,” I laughed, perhaps a trifle too emphatically, “do you like that?  It’s great.  Man, I love Planet Earth.”

Inside, I was filled with self-loathing.

Everything was falling apart.  I didn’t know what I was doing. I was pulling the chute, and I was still miles from the ground. No wonder she was looking at me with such confusion; I was sweating and babbling like a turkey, just blurting out random vowel sounds, and hoping everything would be okay.

“Um. I guess so.”

“Great! Let’s go!”

She was tense as we walked. I attempted a few playful shoves, but got no response, and when we arrived at my apartment, she stayed by the door. Neither of us said a word.

It was horrible.

When you’re on a first date, a few seconds of silence can seem like hours. Your mind races as you try to think of something to say, and, all the while, you can sense your chances of ever getting laid again slipping through your fingers.

I knew I’d screwed up. I’d violated the primary rule of bringing a girl home: Always have a reason. I’d totally panicked, jumped the gun, and now I was hurling myself headlong into the thick of:

I could taste the bile in the back of my throat.

“So, Planet Earth, eh? There’s a great one on Jungles! Just grab a seat next to me and-”

She fixed me with a pitying look, as if she were a Kindergarten teacher, and I’d just soiled my rubber trousers for the seventh time.

“Ian. Maybe we should just put on some music or something.”

I swallowed.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

We made approximately four minutes of awkward conversation before she said:

“Listen, I’ve gotta run. I’m meeting a friend downtown, and I need to be there by six.”

“Yeah. Sure. Totally. I understand. Here. Let me walk you out.”

As we walked to the door, she turned and took one last look at the apartment.

“Is that a Ponytail Palm?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You’re really clean, eh? This place is spotless.”

I reveled in my cunning.

My heart was pounding as we stepped into the hallway.

“I had a good time, today,” I said, cringing at the cliche.

“Yeah.”

“We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah. Totally.”

“Well, uh… see you later.”

We leaned in for an awkward hug, and, as our faces drew close, I went in for a kiss. But, just as our lips were about to touch, she turned her head, and I instead received what tasted suspiciously like a mouthful of cheek.

My face burned crimson.

“I just – I have this throat thing right now,” she said, “and I wouldn’t want to get you sick.”

“Right. Okay. Totally.That’s cool.”

Then, with a look in her eye I couldn’t quite place, she turned, and quickly disappeared down the hall, leaving me with a pounding heart, a churning stomach, and, as far as I could tell, a one-way ticket to:

Make no mistake: there are few circumstances in the universe more harrowing and perilous for a young, single male than calling a woman he doesn’t know.

What if she doesn’t answer?

What if she doesn’t remember you?

What happens if you ask her out, and she claims to be busy?

I sweated through two consecutive afternoons before I finally called DJ StrangeLove.

“Come over,” he grunted into the phone, “we should discuss it in person.”

An hour later, I pulled my bike into the driveway of a spacious house just off of Commercial Drive, and knocked on the door.

So, this was where DJ StrangeLove lived, I thought. Admittedly, I was a little disappointed.
It just seemed so ordinary. I’d always pictured him living in a barn, or a lighthouse or something.

Nobody answered, but the door itself was unlocked, and so, with a hint of trepidation, I let myself in.

And, as I ascended the main staircase, I looked around in amazement.

The house was full of women.

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

A perky blonde on the couch. A short, stylish brunette in the bathroom down the hall, putting on makeup. A raven-haired Australian coming from the kitchen with a sandwich on a plate. A woman in a perilously short kimono going into her bedroom with a smoldering joint in her hand. I met each of them with a smile and a knuckle-pound, and quietly ticked four touches off of my daily list. It was incredible. The more conversations I had, and the more people I touched, the easier it was becoming.

Effortless.

Almost natural.

It was amazing how something as simple as a positive, upbeat attitude, and some simple physical contact was so profoundly transforming how people reacted to me.As much as I was loathe to admit it, everything DJ StrangeLove had taught me over the previous month had helped me to become a better version of myself.

However, any gratitude I may have had toward him instantly dissipated the moment I entered his bedroom.

“Ian!” he shouted, “good to see you! Come on in! Have a seat!”

The room was spacious, painted a deep shade of blue, and in one corner, on raised tile, sat a fully-functioning jacuzzi bathtub.

And, inside, up to his nipples in churning, boiling water, naked as a newborn, sat DJ StrangeLove.

“Gah! Fuck! What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted.

“Can you flick that switch on the wall?” he bellowed back, “I can’t hear you over the jets!”

“No, man! Fuck! Put some clothes on, or something!”

“Oh, quit being such a homophobe. Now, grab that switch!”

I hesitated.

“Or, I could just get it myself…”

I’ve never reached the other side of a room more quickly.

A moment later, heart racing, I sat down on the edge of the bed, and, for some mysterious reason, instantly became fascinated by the grain of the hardwood floor.

“So, I need to call this girl,” I said, eyes down.

I heard random splashing.

“Right. Phone-calls. The object of a successful first phone call is to appear busy, but not too busy. Don’t give her the impression that you’re free every night of the week. A strong, confident man always has at least some other obligations. Pick a couple of ‘free’ nights, and, if she can’t make it, wait until the following week.”

“Okay.”

“The whole idea is to make it as low-pressure as you can. For both of you. So, for that reason, don’t ask her on a ‘date’. Just suggest that the two of you hang out. And, for the same reason you don’t do traditional, boring shit like dinner and a movie, never suggest a meeting on Friday or Saturday, because those are date nights. Do your nerves a favour: pick a low-pressure time, like a Wednesday night, or a Saturday afternoon.”

“Okay.”

“Jesus, Ian. You’ve seen worse in the Guys’ Locker Room.”

“It’s just fucking weird, okay? I’m allowed to think it’s fucking weird.”

“I like baths, man.”

“You knew I was coming.”

“Guy’s gotta wash sometime.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“So, you’re saying you don’t want a hug, then.”

I declined, as quickly and politely as I could.

An hour later, I was ready to leave the house. In my hand was a paper copy of my Date Plan, a script for my upcoming phone call, and an itemized list known to DJ StrangeLove as a Phone Plan, which read as follows:

ITEM 1: If she picks up on the first attempt.
ITEM 2: If she picks up after the second attempt.
ITEM 3: If she doesn’t pick up after the second attempt.

Naturally, it contained detailed instructions on what to do in each instance, and, despite the sense of raging discomfort engendered by our little bathtub encounter, I also felt a profound sense of relief.

I waved a pathetic little goodbye to the girls as I walked down the front stairs, and, when I reached the front foyer, DJ StrangeLove, wearing nothing but a towel, gave me a hearty pat on the back.

“You can do it, mate. I believe in you. You’re Hercules. You’re Conan the fucking Barbarian.”

“Uh, thanks,” I mumbled, searching for something to say, “nice place you got here.”

DJ StrangeLove laughed, one hand on his towel, and winked as he shut the door.

“Who said it’s my place?”

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

The first time I called, she didn’t answer.

The second, it went to voicemail, and I instantly panicked and hung up.

Then, as per DJ StrangeLove’s instructions, I waited until the following day before trying again.

Again, it went to voicemail.

As she instructed me to leave my name and number after the tone, I hurriedly consulted my Phone-Plan.

ITEM 3 it was, then.

“Hey, it’s Ian,” I stammered, reading from the script, “you should totally hang out with me and my ass this week. Gimme a shout back when you get this.”

Then, I left my number, hung up, and spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom with a racing heart and stomach-cramps.
I waited an hour.

Two.

Nothing.

Finally, swearing violently, I decided to go for a bike-ride to clear my head.

And, it was then that I saw her.

It was as I climbed the hill at the bottom of Main; breathing heavily, sweating profusely, trying my damndest not to be sideswiped by traffic: a redhead, at the newsstand across the street, casual and enigmatic as she smoked a cigarette.

And, to be honest, if you asked, I couldn’t tell you why I stopped.

Maybe it was the two hours I’d spent worrying at home; maybe it was exercise-induced insanity after climbing that beast of a hill.

Or maybe it was simply that I just didn’t want to feel like a loser anymore.

Whatever the reason, as I passed her, I hit the brakes.

“Uh… anything good in the news?”

I instantly hated myself. Those Conversation-Starters definitely needed work.

She eyed me with suspicion.

“You didn’t stop just to ask me that.”

I froze.

Now what?

And then, it hit me: context.

“You’re right,” I grinned, “do you mind if I grab a drag off of that smoke? I’m dying, here.”

Instantly, she relaxed.

“Ha. Sure.”

“I’m Ian,” I said, “pound it.”

She smiled.

“Erin.”

It turned out, we were both walking the same direction, and ten minutes later, after some pleasant conversation, we parted ways at Main and 30th.

But not before I tried out my newest trick.

“Well, I’ve gotta run, but it was great to meet you,” I smiled.

“Yeah.”

“We should totally hang out one of these days.”

“Yeah. Totally!”

Then, I handed her my phone, and watched with absolute amazement as she calmly punched in her number.

“Well, aren’t you clever with your little phone?” she said.

And then, she was gone.

I rode home in the grip of absolute euphoria.

I was Conan the fucking Barbarian.

And, as I pulled my bike up to the back door of my apartment building, I recieved the phone-call that would shape my entire weekend.

“It’s Steph,” the voice on the other end said, “Let’s do it.”

21:23:

IH:
I did it.

DJSL:
Did what?

IH:
It.

DJSL:
What the fuck is “it”?

IH:
I got a girl’s phone-number.

DJSL:
Fuck you. No you didn’t.

IH:
Yeah, I did. Last night. At The Whip.

DJSL:
Fuck you.

IH:
No, I did.

DJSL:
No you fucking didn’t.

IH:
Yes, I fucking did. Stop saying “fuck” so much.

DJSL:
Sorry.
What happened?

IH:
Just walked up and asked her how my ass looked in the new pants.

DJSL:

Jesus. And it worked?

IH:
Um. Yes.

DJSL:
I’d recommend retiring that line ASAP.

IH:
I know.

DJSL:
Like, ASAMFP.

IH:
I will, okay?

DJSL:
Cool the attitude, mate. Just here to help. How did you get her number?

IH:
A friend of hers said she was interested, so I just went up and asked for it.

DJSL:
Okay. I guess we have to go into Number-Grabs.

IH:
What the hell is a Number-Grab?

DJSL:
A way of getting a girl’s number without looking like a complete vagina.

IH:
I didn’t look like a complete vagina.

DJSL:
Did you use the Number-Grab?

IH:
I don’t even know what it is.

DJSL:
Then, you looked like a complete vagina.

Next time, do this: wait until you can tell the girl is interested, then, a minute or two before the conversation runs out of steam, say: “Look, I gotta run, but it was really great to meet you.”
She’ll say: “Yeah, totally”.
Without stopping, say: “We should totally hang out one of these days.”
Again, she’ll say: “Yeah.”
Then, just hand her your phone.

IH:
That actually works?

DJSL:
Every tiem.
Fuck.
Time.
Because, the goal, early-on, is to keep the situation from getting uncomfortable. Just coming out and asking for her number will make most girls uncomfortable, because it shows that you have crap social-skills. Don’t make her uncomfortable.
Ever.
Uncomfortable girls do not have sex with you.

IH:
So, what do I say?

DJSL:
What?

IH:
What do I say when I call her?

DJSL:
It’s a little early for that, don’t you think?

IH:
Um, no.

DJSL:
That’s where you’re wrong, boy. We’ve got to make you a Date Plan. An outline of everything that’s going to happen when you meet her, from beginning to end.
Where do you live?

IH:
Main.

DJSL:
Main? Fuck. That’s like a dating Dead-Zone.

IH:
So?

DJSL:
A good first-date always takes place close to where you live. That way, if things go well, you can make sure that it ends at your house. Specifically, the bed part of the house.

IH:
Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit? I haven’t even called her.

DJSL:
No. When you’re new to this, and you’re on a date, you’re going to get nervous.
There are just so many hurdles: when to kiss, how to get her to your house, how to keep things moving.
If you don’t structure these waypoints beforehand, you’ll just get nervous, blank, and fuck it up.
You need to prepare for every possibility. ALWAYS HAVE A PLAN. Remember?
Then, just pretend it’s all coming off the top of your head.

IH:
I told you, I don’t want to trick anybody. I don’t know if I can treat a woman that way.

DJSL:
Ian, for fuck’s sake. Since when did Not Being A Weiner constitute a “trick”?
If you’re attractive, exciting, and interesting, she’ll want to sleep with you. Women aren’t made of porcelain. They want sex just as much as we do. But, surprise, surprise: they want to have it with people who are attractive.
And women are attracted to strength.
Depending on the woman, her definition of strength will change, but having interesting places to go, and being decisive about what you’re doing is going to look strong no matter who she is. Trust me: my female friends are always complaining about the lack of interesting, attractive men in Vancouver. Do them a favour.
I’m not saying that you have to sleep with her right away, but you need to know how to get her to that point in a fun and comfortable way, so when it happens, you don’t panic.

IH:
But, what do I SAY to her?

DJSL:
We’ll get there. FIRST, we need three interesting things to do on Main Street. In order for a woman to think you’re interesting, you have to take her somewhere interesting.

IH:
I can’t just do dinner and a movie?

DJSL:
Not unless you’re interested in looking like a huge shittyass.

IH:
Well, there’s an amazing Thrift Store down the street.

DJSL:
Take her. Meet her for a quick coffee first, then go. Try on clothes. Take photos of each other. Then, suggest a restaurant.

IH:
I can’t do a lot of restaurants on Main. I’m a vegetarian.

DJSL:
Well, figure something out. After the Thrift Store, mention that you’re hungry, and suggest grabbing a bite.

IH:
Then what?

DJSL:
Your place.

IH:
Um.

DJSL:
But, don’t just take her there. If you’re going to get a woman to your place, you need a reason.
You can’t just say: “let’s go over to my house, so we can have sex.” Unless she’s desperate, insane, or in her 30′s, she won’t go for it. Women want sex just as much as we do, but if you make them feel cheap or pressured, they’ll bail. So, you need something else.
My favourite was always BBC Planet Earth.

IH:
?

DJSL:
It’s just so full of crazy shit. Bats being eaten by cockroaches. Giant hills of guano. Bring up some random thing you saw. She’ll either have seen it, or think it’s cool enough to want to see it. Then, say: “That’s it. We’re watching it,” and leave it at that. Then, continue with the date, and, when you’re done at the restaurant, tell her (don’t ask; tell) that she should come over, so you can check it out. It’ll seem casual, accidental, and won’t make her…

IH:
Uncomfortable.

DJSL:
So, let’s recap.
Step One?

IH:
Coffee Shop.

DJSL:
Step Two?

IH:
Thrift Store.

DJSL:
Step Three?

IH:
Restaurant.

DJSL:
Don’t forget to mention Planet Earth! Step Four?

IH:
…

DJSL:
Step Four?

IH:
My place.

DJSL:
Then, you let her settle onto your couch. Get close. Make sure you’ve been touching a lot beforehand.
Use all that touch work you’ve been doing. Start with something casual: a knuckle-pound, then a Thumb-War, then a touch on the arm, then the shoulder, then the knee. And, so on.
Last thing: make sure you’re not afraid to give her shit.
This is the single most important principle you’ll ever learn.
A strong, confident man isn’t afraid to call her on her faults. Look for opportunities. If she gives a weak knuckle-pound, make her try it again. If she snorts when she laughs, make fun of her.
So often, men put themselves in subservient positions for no good reason, and do their best to impress the woman they’re with. Flip it around. Make her want to impress YOU.

IH:
But, what do I say when I call her?

DJSL:
Ha.
Just tell her you’ve got something awesome to do, and she should meet you midweek.

IH:
That’s it?

DJSL:
Yep. You don’t owe her an explanation. You just met the bitch.

IH:
Okay.
I’m going to call her now.
Nervous.

DJSL:
You can do it, man. I believe in you. You run into trouble, send me a text.

IH:
Thanks.

DJSL:
Anyway, must hit the hay.

IH:
Rough night?

DJSL:
Well, you know how it is. First time you sleep with someone…

IH:
Forget I asked.

DJSL:
Her name’s Jenn.

IH:
I don’t want to know.

DJSL:
God, I’m so proud of you.

IH:
Shut up.

DJSL:

IH:
?

DJSL:
I just like sharks. Deal with it.

350 dollars, I thought.

350 fucking dollars on fucking jeans.

Fuck.

To put it mildly, I was livid.

“They’re not just pants,” DJ StrangeLove had insisted, “they’re an investment in your future.”

Around 3:15, the phone rang.

“Dude. Where the fuck you been?”

It was Leon, and he sounded unhappy.

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen you since Century, man. And that was a week and a half ago.”

I was shocked. Had it only been ten days? It felt like months since the night I’d met DJ StrangeLove.

“We’re drinking beers tonight,” he insisted, “non-negotiable.”

As I worked to come up with an excuse to stay home, it dawned on me: if it had been ten days since Century, that meant it had been exactly one week since The Media Club. One week since I’d surrendered $200 in twenties, and been charged with the task of meeting ten strangers. Which meant I had less than 8 hours left to win back that last $20.

“All right, fine,” I conceded, “meet me at The Whip.”

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

Five hours later, I arrived outside.

Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the front windows, I felt completely ridiculous. I was wearing DJ StrangeLove’s outfit. All of it, from head to heels. I’d even, after much deliberation, put on the hated jeans (making sure, of course, to tuck the price-tag into the waistband so that I could return them after their one and only night on the town). It had, for one insane second, seemed like a good idea. But now, as I stood in the doorway, I felt so conspicuous I might as well have been naked. I wanted nothing more than to turn around and go home, retreat, and change into something that made me feel a little less like a raging fraud.

“They’re an investment in your future. And trust me, they’ll pay off.”

I took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

“What the hell is this?” Leon scoffed, as I approached the table.

“New pants,” I shrugged, trying to play it coy, “how do you think my ass looks?”

“What ass?” Leon laughed.

I grimaced.

Some investment.

An hour later, we were at least four beers deep. And it was then, as Leon was in the midst of some endless, rambling, drunken story about misplacing his contact solution, that I saw her: daintily sipping a beer with two friends, a tall girl, with a punk sensibility, and a head crowned by a set of magnificent dreadlocks. Even as I watched, I knew she was destined to be my final approach.

I remembered what DJ StrangeLove had said: before you can sleep with a woman, before you can kiss her, before you can get to know her, you have to meet her. But how the hell was I supposed to meet her? Even though she was less than a meter away, she might as well have been on the goddamn moon. Sometimes, the greatest distance in the world is between two strangers.

Especially when they have different sets of gonads.

If you want a woman to think you’re interesting, DJ StrangeLove had said, you need to be talking about something interesting.

Well, no shit.

And still, Leon continued his story. I didn’t even know what he was talking about anymore. His lips were flapping and sound was coming out, but they were just random vowels and consonants.

Meaningless words strung together into run-on sentences.

You inconsiderate bastard, I thought.

It’s obvious that I haven’t been paying attention to you for close to ten minutes. I’ve been sidelong-glancing these people for more than twice as long, and you’re still not taking the hint.

Then, abruptly, they got up to leave.

I dug my fingernails into the edge of the table.

It was too late.

She was pushing back her chair, shouldering into her coat.

I was about to lose my chance with an amazing-looking woman because, when my idiot best-friend starts drinking beer, he turns into James fucking Joyce.

Before you can sleep with a woman, before you can kiss her, before you can get to know her, you have to meet her. So suddenly, desperately, I jumped to my feet, went into a deep lunge, and blurted, “how does my ass look in these pants?”
Leon stared at me, stunned.

I had angled my body toward the girl with the dreadlocks, and, even though I was still addressing Leon, I could see that her interest was piqued. So, heart pounding in my chest, I turned to face her. “What do you think?” I asked, “because, a buddy of mine was just raving that my ass looked fantastic, but, honestly, I’m on the fence, and I feel like a woman’s opinion is important.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Not bad,” she said, “I think it works for you.”

Then she dropped her eyes and smiled nervously, and I wished to God I could think of something witty to say.

“Who are you?” one of her friends, a blonde with badly-crimped hair, asked.

“Uh, I’m Ian,” I replied, then added, with a wince, “pound it.”

To my surprise, all three of them agreed.

“I’m Steph,” the girl with the dreadlocks said. “How’s your night going?”

“Uh, not too bad at all,” I replied, “I’d say — one-and-a-half thumbs up, out of two.”

She laughed.

“That’s great! Mine might even be at one-and-three-quarters, right now.”

“Oooh,” I replied, “that’s not bad at all.”

Her eyes lingered on mine a half-second longer than I expected, and I fought the urge to turn red.
The three of us talked for a few more minutes, though about what, I haven’t the faintest idea. I was far too focused on staying vertical. I wished I could make her laugh again. I wished I could get her phone-number. But, a few minutes later, when the conversation petered out, all I could do was exchange a final knuckle-pound, and wander away feeling like a colossal idiot. I returned to the table, cursing myself. After all that trouble, I’d choked. I’d choked, and now I’d never see her again.

Suddenly, there was a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

It was the blonde.

“Uh, yes?”

“Steph really likes you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Could I maybe get your number for her?”

In that moment, I nearly lost bowel control.

“What?”

“Yeah. Can I get your number, so she can call you sometime?”

I did my best to appear nonchalant. But, suddenly, I heard DJ StrangeLove’s voice in my head, and I made a decision.

“Uh, where is she?” I asked.

“Outside.”

And then, I turned and walked out the door.

“Where are you going?” the blonde asked.

“To give it to her myself.”

My mind was calm as I set foot on the patio.

I had nothing to fear.

After all, I was a strong, confident man.

A moment later, I smoothly collected her digits (and, by “collected her digits”, I mean “stood awkwardly beside her for a moment before blurting ‘hey, so can I get your number?’”), and then returned to my table.

“What the hell was that?” Leon asked, as I sat down.

“What was what?”

“That. Did you plan that shit or something?”

“Uh, no.”

“Fuck you. Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. I swear to you. That was pure DJ StrangeLove.”

Leon’s eyes went wide.

“What?”

I leaned forward and smiled. “I’ve had an interesting week.”

When I rode home that night, I was exuberant. I couldn’t believe it. My first phone number.

It worked.

His bullshit actually worked.

As I pedaled a drunken line down the side streets, I literally had a song on my lips, and, when I arrived home that night, I flopped onto my bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling, grinning for close to an hour. Then I pulled the price-tag from the waistband of my jeans, tore it into five pieces, tossed them in the air, and lay back with a contented smile on my face as they all rained down upon me.

Suddenly, $350 didn’t seem like such a big investment after all.

I watched as he sat at the other end of the food court table, eyes red, hair wild.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, “I need a fucking Smoothie.”

“You okay?” I asked.

“Sorry,” he yawned, “late night. You know how it is: first time you sleep with somebody, things can get out of hand.”

“I thought you were retired.”

He waved his hand dismissively.

“Today’s lesson is simple: if you want to be noticed by attractive women, or any woman for that matter, you have to look the part. Don’t take this personally, but when was the last time you shopped for clothes?”

I leaned back, pondering.

“Um…. maybe four years ago?”

“Jesus. No wonder you never get laid.”

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

“What do you mean?”

“Right now, you dress like an average guy. So, that’s how you get treated. You need stuff that’s flashy. Edgy. You want to get laid like a rockstar? Start dressing like one.”

He gestured to the men sitting all around us.

“Look at these people. A sea of men, and not one of them is wearing clothes that fit. Any man can be halfway attractive if he dresses well, but so few of them do. Shirts that cost more than ten bucks. Pants that fit. A belt with a flashy buckle, that’ll draw her attention to your crotch.”

“Why?”

“So you can give her shit for checking out your crotch.”

“But that’s not me,” I insisted.

“Not yet, it isn’t.”

“But I shouldn’t have to do that.”

He snorted.

“You don’t put any work into your appearance, you deserve whatever you get.”

“Look, how much is this going to cost?” I asked, desperate, “because I don’t get paid until next week, and I really want to go to the Kid Koala concert.”

”I don’t know, man. For some stuff, we’re going to have to go high-end.”

“How about Winners?” I asked, “can I shop at Winners?”

“No. Let’s go.”

“But, I don’t want to go shopping.”

“I’m not here for what you want, Ian. I’m here for what you need.”

“That’s not part of the job.”

He rubbed his temples.

“Well, if anybody else volunteers to do it, let me know.”

The first part of the day was a parade of different stores; time spent buying t-shirts, belts, cardigans, and something called a ‘wrist cuff’, which is kind of like a watch, except with the added bonus that it can’t actually tell you the time.  And then, after we’d been wandering the mall for close to four hours, as my eyes were getting bleary and my head was starting to pound, we arrived in front of the most expensive store in the building, for the proverbial coup de grace.

“Final item of business:” DJ StrangeLove announced, “A pair of jeans that makes your ass look good.  Women are checking out your ass more regularly than you can imagine. You need to give them a reason to keep looking.  These days, a solid pair of jeans is a man’s best asset.  You can’t be fucking around.”

Suddenly, his phone rang.

“Excuse me,” he murmered.

I began to sweat.

All around me, the price tags were absurdly high.

$140 for a t-shirt.

$600 for a jacket.

Considering the most money I’ve ever spent in a single location was the $80 I once had to shell out for work shoes, this was hardly familiar territory.

The salespeople watched me suspiciously, sensing my terror.

Then, mericfully, DJ StrangeLove returned.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “girlfriend.”

“Whoah, wait a second. You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she know you were out sleeping with another woman last night?”
“She should. She was right beside me.”

“Are you serious? Doing what?”

“Sleeping with another man.”

Just then, a salesgirl approached; slender, Asian, with a sleek, silver name-tag that read: “HELEN”.

“Hi,” she smiled, “how’s it going?”

Suddenly, DJ StrangeLove swooped into my periphery. The change in his attitude was astonishing. His manner was loose, animated; his shoulders square, his eyes engaged.

“Good, man,” he chuckled, “maybe one-and-a-half thumbs up, out of two.”

For emphasis, he displayed both thumbs, one straight up, the other bent at the knuckle.

She laughed.

“Although, if we can find some pants for my buddy, here, that could bump me up to one-and-three-quarters.”

She smiled at DJ StrangeLove, intrigued.

“I think I could help you with that.”

And, away we went.

Now, for the record: there are few experiences in the world more emasculating than shopping for jeans with another man, and having him give your ass a rating.

“Oooh! Ass Factor: Eight!” he’d shout.

“A six! A solid six!”

Within minutes, he and Helen were like old friends: shoving each other playfully, name-calling, and, much to my chagrin, giving American-Idol-style critiques of each new pair I tried on.

It was the most attention that had ever been paid to my ass in a single day.

“You picked those?” DJ StrangeLove would scoff at her, “what are you trying to do to him?”

“Whatever,” she’d giggle, “they’re way better than the ones you picked.”

“Sssh. I like you so much better when you don’t talk.”

By the end of the first hour, I’d tried on literally dozens of pairs of pants, and yet, each time I emerged, something wasn’t quite right.

Wrong colour.

Wrong fit.

Too dark.

Too light.

I began to get demoralized. No matter how hard I flexed, or what I tried, I simply couldn’t crack an Ass Factor of Eight. After ninety minutes, and close to thirty pairs, we were no closer to finding what we were after.

Dejected, I returned to the changeroom. This was the longest period of time I’d ever spent in a shopping mall, and I had absolutely nothing to show for it.

“Can we go, now?” I asked, weary.

Suddenly, I heard DJ StrangeLove chuckle.

“What? Did you find something?” I asked.

“Yeah. But, you’re not going to like it.”

He slid a pair of crisp, new jeans under the stall door.

“Try them on!” he shouted.

“I don’t-”

“Try. Them. On.”

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

A moment later, when I emerged, the vote was unanimous:

“Those are the ones, man. Yes!” DJ StrangeLove shouted, “that’s an Ass Factor of nine, wouldn’t you say, Paula?”

“I’d say 9.5,” Helen replied, hand on chin.

Relief flooded over me as I returned to the changeroom.

That is, until I caught sight of the price-tag.

And my skin went cold.

This single pair of pants cost $350.

“Yeah,” I called, “I think I found the part I’m not going to like.”

“Jesus, Ian,” he laughed, “they’re not just pants. They’re an investment in your future. And, trust me, they’ll pay off.”

I could taste bile in the back of my throat as I approached the counter. I stood, sullen, as Helen rang my purchase through, and I stared at the floor as DJ StrangeLove, using the same technique as he had at Century, collected her phone-number.
Then, we left the store. And, the instant we were out of Helen’s sight, DJ StrangeLove’s demeanour dropped.

“Jesus,” he grimaced, “I really need a fucking smoothie.”

That night, when I got home, I tossed the hated jeans into a corner.  I could sense them within their plastic bag, mocking me, and, each time I came back into my bedroom, made a point of staring ruefully in their direction.

$350.

That’s half as much as I spent on my car.

“They’re an investment in your future,” DJ StrangeLove had assured me.

Sure, I thought, laying in bed that night.

An investment.

Of course, at that point, I had no idea it would pay off so literally.

And, so soon.

One of our programmers looked like he was having a bad morning, and, after much deliberation, I removed my hand from my pocket, and patted him on the shoulder.

The second was with Craig, a Sales Rep, who I high-fived over a Calgary Flames trade on my way to the bathroom.

The third and fourth were handshakes with customers, something I normally never do.

The fifth was to give Leon a friendly punch in the shoulder.

I cycled home that night feeling accomplished.

‘Touch five people per day,’  DJ StrangeLove had said.

And, in spite of myself, I’d done just that.

Perhaps it was my success, or perhaps it was the effect of the two cigarettes I’d smoked the night before (in a desperate attempt for conversation-time with a girl way out of my league), but I was dizzy with it.

Dizzy, and slightly confused.

“Why am I doing this, again?” I asked DJ StrangeLove over the phone that night.

“Because you’re a strong, confident man.  And strong, confident men touch others.  They’re comfortable in people’s personal space.”

“But I’m not comfortable,” I insisted, “that’s the problem.”

He laughed.

“You don’t have to be.  The purpose of this isn’t to make you comfortable or confident.  It’s to figure out what comfortable and confident look like, and learn to do it.  How does Confident stand?  Sit?  Move?  You want to make it to 23 women?  Then, learning those behaviours is your objective.”

“But I don’t want to make it to 23 women,” I insisted, “I never even said that.  I’m not doing this just to have a bunch of random hookups.  I’m doing this so that I don’t feel like having a heart-attack every time a woman talks to me.”

“Uh huh,” he snorted, “well, you won’t even make it to one if you can’t touch somebody.  Do you want to be able to kiss a girl?”

“Of course I do.”

“A kiss doesn’t happen in a vaccuum.  The road to that first kiss begins with touch.  If she isn’t comfortable with having you in her space, or having your hands on her body, then you’ll never even get the chance to kiss her.  You’ll wait until the very last minute, try to force it just after you’ve walked her home, and, at best, you’ll get a peck on the cheek as she vanishes through the door, never calls you again, and bitches to her friends the next day about how you seemed nice, but there was no chemistry.”

My cheeks burned.  It was as though DJ StrangeLove had managed to distill my entire dating life down to one sentence.

“It starts simply: high-fives, pats on the back, touches on the forearm to show your emphasis of some stupid point.  Then, it progresses.  A playful shove.  A brush of the hair.  All the way to the end of the line.  But, before you do any of that, you have to be comfortable with touch.  And, in order to be comfortable touching women, you have to be comfortable touching everybody.”

As much as I hated to admit it, he did have a reasonable point.

This person, about whom I knew virtually nothing, this person who had one of the most unfortunate psuedonyms since Englebert Humperdinck, this person who seemed so utterly bereft of even the most basic morality, actually had, to my surprise, some genuine insight into the workings of human beings.

“I hate it when you’re right,” I spat.

“Interactions between people fall into two categories,” he continued, “communicating information, and communicating status.  There’s no better display of status than touching another person.  A touch can make a man want to kill you, or a woman want to sleep with you.  They’re powerful things.”

I gulped.

“That seems like a lot of pressure.”

“Well, for now, let’s keep it basic.  The most powerful weapon in your touch arsenal is the Knuckle Pound.  So, start with that.”

I tensed.

“I hate the Knuckle Pound.”

Even ‘hate’ wasn’t a strong enough word.  As far as I was concerned, the Knuckle Pound was the instrument of the devil, used exclusively at Frat Parties and Football Games by the kind of mouth-breathers who used to shove me into lockers back in high-school.

“Learn to love it,” DJ StrangeLove replied, “it’s the most casual form of contact you can have with a person you don’t know. If you want a guaranteed way to connect with a girl, the Knuckle Pound is it.”

“I’m not doing it,” I repeated.

“Well, you’ll figure something out,” he replied, “after all, you’re a strong, confident man.”
Then, he hung up.

The next day, I had all five by  1pm.

I high-fived Craig over another Flames trade.

I nudged Keith in the leg over a joke during the afternoon staff-meeting.

I hugged Arash from Development, because his job is impossibly hard, and all I ever do is make it harder for him.

When I went to bed that night, I did so feeling powerful and accomplished.

However, the following day was a different story.

By 1pm, I hadn’t touched a soul.

I hadn’t even touched myself, which, given the colossal lack of action I’d been recieving for, oh, about the last lifetime, was actually a fairly impressive feat.

I couldn’t even get my now-customary high-five from Craig.

“Sweet trade today, eh?” I exclaimed, holding out my hand.

He looked bewildered, and wandered off. This was totally understandable, considering the Flames hadn’t actually MADE a trade that day.

By the end of work, my total still sat squarely at zero.  What had started off so easy had suddenly become monumentally difficult.

I headed to the grocery store that evening, not demoralized, but determined.  There were 600,000 people in this city.  Surely, I could get one of them to touch me.

I was a strong, confident man, goddammit.

As I approached the counter, the Checkout Girl caught my eye. She was a tall brunette with a milky complexion, and a name tag, placed perhaps a little too high on her vest, which read: “COLLEEN”. I attempted to make conversation with her as she rang my groceries through, but her answers were clipped and automatic, responses borne of having been asked the same four questions hundreds of times in the past eight hours.

“Have a good night,” I said weakly, as I collected my change.

She attempted a smile.

And I realized I was out of time.

This was it.

My last chance.

If I didn’t use this opportunity,  I would have failed, utterly.

If you want a guaranteed way to connect with a girl, DJ StrangeLove had said, the Knuckle Pound is it.

There was a pause.

And, in the pause, I sweated mightily.

Then, grimacing, I reached my fist over the counter, and, with considerable agony and self-loathing, said:

“Pound it.”

Suddenly, her entire demeanour changed.  She grinned widely, and pounded my knuckles with such force that they stung for an hour afterward.  She followed it with some kind of explosion sound effect, and, as I walked toward the exit, watched me leave, looking very pleased with both of us.

Walking home, I tried to hide my grimace.

I hated it when he was right.

That night, I had an email in my inbox from DJ StrangeLove.

“Remember what I said about the clothes?” it read, “I wasn’t kidding.  Set some money aside.  And most of Saturday.  We’re going shopping.”

]]> http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/colleen/feed/ 2 http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/michelle/ http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/michelle/#comments Wed, 03 Mar 2010 17:47:47 +0000 Ian Hannon http://thedependent.ca/?p=158 The next day, I met DJ StrangeLove on my lunch-hour, and the minute he walked into the coffee shop, heads started turning.

I couldn’t blame them.

He sported a tight mauve shirt, intense, rock-star boots, a giant, flashy belt-buckle, and a shiny suit-jacket that reflected silver in the afternoon light.  His hair was immaculately coiffed, his fingers were heavy with rings, and he sported a light dusting of beard-growth just across the line of his chin.

I couldn’t believe it was the same man.

He looked ridiculous; like he’d decided to beef up his outfit by dressing like a Gay Carnival.

“Man,” he whistled, under his breath as he looked around, “there are some smokin’ babes in here.”

For the record, I’ve always disliked the term “smokin’”.

First of all, it’s horribly archaic.  And, there’s something inherently ridiculous about it, ostensibly referring to a woman as though she were some kind of campfire, rather than a human being.

“How did you feel about last night?” he asked, settling into his chair.

“I’m not really sure what happened.”

“What happened is, you learned the cardinal rule of starting a conversation: if you want a woman to think you’re interesting, then, when you meet her, you need to be talking about something interesting.”

“Like beards,” I replied, skeptically.

“Well, last night it was beards, but it could really be anything.  All that matters is that you figure it out beforehand.  In the beginning, The System relies almost exclusively on predetermined material.  They’re routines, essentially, and your goal is to hone them to perfection.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be tricking anybody or anything.”

“You’re not tricking anybody.  You’re just learning to be attractive, man.  Trust me, you’re doing women a favour.”

“Yeah,” I chuckled, “how many times did you have to tell yourself that before you believed it?”

“Look, do you want to make it to 23 women, or not?”

“Okay, okay, sorry.  Go ahead.”

“Nightclubs are the hardest places in the world to pick up a woman.  They’re on their guard.  So, in order to successfully start a conversation, you need two things: a Question you can ask, and a reason to ask it.  Women, especially attractive women, have heard it all before.  Unless you’re exceptionally charming, or good-looking, you’ll go down in flames.  So many cats just jump in there, flying by the seat of their pants, jabbering at the woman, until her friends come rescue her.  This is why they go home alone.  You need a plan.”

And here, he jabbed a bony finger into my ribs.

“Always.  Have.  A plan.”

I nodded.

“Always have an interesting, fun question or statement,” DJ StrangeLove continued, “and a context.  You can ask anything you want, provided you have a good enough reason.  You want to make the meeting look accidental.  You could be asking anybody.  She just happened to be closest.”

He leaned forward, knocking back the last of his Chai Latte.

“Last night was tough,” he said, “but trust me, that’s the hardest it’s ever going to be.  Trust me.  It all gets easier from here. And, you did well.  Really well.”

“Yeah,” I replied, dejected, “I only got to eight, though.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” he grinned, “I’m feeling charitable.  You’ve got the rest of the week to make the last two.”

Then, he stood, and turned to go.

“Oh,” he said, turning, “I almost forgot.  Your Homework assignment.”

And here, his face stretched into a wry grin.

“This week, you have to touch five people. Every day.”

My skin went cold.

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter who.  Could be anybody.  Friends.  Coworkers.  I don’t care.”

“How?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“But, why?”

He put a hand on my shoulder, and I recoiled.

“Exactly,” he winked.

As he walked to the door, I called after him.

“I have to ask.  What’s with the outfit?”

“Don’t laugh too hard.  Pretty soon, you’ll be wearing it.”

Then, walking away, he discreetly pointed to a group of seated, young blondes.

“Smokin’”, he mouthed.

I thought about what he’d said for the rest of the afternoon.

Touch five people per day.

I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t.

I probably hadn’t touched five people in the past month.

Physical contact was one of my biggest weaknesses.  I couldn’t even pat Leon on the back, and he was my best friend.

I couldn’t do it.

But I had to.

I wasn’t doing this, as DJ StrangeLove had insisted, so that I could sleep with 23 women.  That was just the catalyst, not the intention.  I wasn’t doing this to fulfill some vague body-count in my head.

I was doing this to become a better person.

And, if I chickened-out now, as the saying went, I’d only be cheating myself.

I thought about it all the way into the evening, when, as I rode my bike home from work, I caught sight of the woman of my dreams.

Unfortunately, she was smoking.

She stood under an awning, puffing elegantly on a cigarette, and the moment I saw her, I instinctively slammed on the brakes.

Of course, I happened to be going at a pretty good clip, and the resultant screech of tires nearly bucked me over the handlebars.

She smiled, discreetly, at my near-catastrophic wipeout, and, heart thudding in my chest, I made my way over to her.

“Um, I have a question for you,” I stumbled, desperately, “should I grow a beard?”

She looked confused.

Suddenly, I remembered what DJ StrangeLove had said:

Always have a context.

“Because, I was just at this rock show, and my friend was saying that women just hate beards, like universally.  Is that true?  Do women just have a hate-on for the beard?  Or is she just full of shit?”

To my surprise, she smiled.

“It’s actually a conspiracy,” she said, “we’re even trying to get them removed retroactively from historical figures.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m Michelle,” she said.

“Ian.”

“Want a smoke?”

I paused.

I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life.  In fact, I find the whole concept disgusting and abhorrent, but I certainly wasn’t about to let this stop me.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

And, as I hacked and choked my way through every vile inch of that cigarette, we talked.  About our lives, about the Olympics, and, as we chatted, I realized that, when it came to approaching women, saying the words wasn’t the challenge.

It was convincing myself to say them.

And, by removing any opportunity to think, I’d never even had the chance to be anxious.

Nine down, I thought.  One to go.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I finished the cigarette.  My head was swimming.  She extended the package toward me, the words “Cigarettes Kill” pointed directly at my chin, a question in her eyes.

“Another?”

I nearly gagged at the suggestion.

But what could I do?

If I refused, or showed any sign of illness, my cover would be blown, and I’d be exposed for the nonsmoking fraud I was.  So, I smiled, somewhat queasily, and said:

“Uh, sure.”

Ten agonizing minutes later, I said an awkward goodbye, gave her my business-card, and then rode home and promptly threw up in the toilet.

But, it was the sweetest-tasting vomit of my life.

And, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not suddenly pro-tobacco.  Cigarettes kill.

That’s what the label says.

But, to be fair, I feel like the package should also point out their potential advantages in getting you laid.

]]> http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/michelle/feed/ 1 http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/claire/ http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/claire/#comments Thu, 25 Feb 2010 00:51:19 +0000 Ian Hannon http://thedependent.ca/?p=138 Saturday afternoon, I couldn’t breathe.

As I went through the motions of my day, all I could think of was the Media Club, and my impending doom.

Maybe I wouldn’t go, I thought. I was a busy man. I had things to do.

Being dragged behind a team of angry horses seemed, at this point, to be a particularly enchanting option.

I wasn’t ready. I could barely look a stranger in the eye for more than a second, let alone talk to them. I’d end up saying something stupid, and be slapped, or laughed at, or otherwise humiliated.

Bring $200 in twenties, he’d said.

This was the kicker.

I’ll admit it: I’m phenomenally cheap. I grew up poor, I hold onto my money jealously, and having to part with $200 for God-knows-what wasn’t exactly my idea of a rodeo. So, I sweated, and swore, and fussed, and worried, but in the end, I put on my best jeans and t-shirt, and headed out the door.

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

Four hours later, I was downtown.

DJ StrangeLove had insisted we meet at a nearby bar, to discuss strategy, and when I arrived, he was already on his third beer of the evening.

“You got the money?” he asked.

Reluctantly, I handed it over.

“Now what?”

“Now, we go out, and you approach 10 women. And for every woman you approach, I give you back $20.”

My heart started pounding.

“Great. So I just gave you $200.”

DJ StrangeLove poked his finger into the centre of my forehead.

“You’re not listening. I didn’t say anything about succeeding. You don’t have to take the girl home. You just have to talk to her.”

“And say what?”

I was starting to panic.

He sat back for a moment, thoughtful, and said:

“Beards.”

“What?”

“Yeah. You want to know whether you should grow a beard or not.”

He couldn’t be serious.

“So, I just go up and say: ‘Excuse me, guys-”

“Never start with ‘excuse me’,” DJ StrangeLove groaned, “it makes you sound like a homeless person. Also, never ask. It’s too easy to say ‘no’. Just walk up and say: ‘Hey guys, I need your opinion on something.”

“Right.”

“Then, ask your question.”

“And then?”

“Walk away. Kiss her. Punch her in the neck. I don’t care. That’s not the point. The point is just to start it. If you want to meet women, You have to meet them.”

He leaned forward, and touched me on the forearm.

I recoiled.

“You have a crazy-intense personal-space bubble, don’t you?” he remarked.

“What?”

“I leaned in, and you backed away. I leaned back, you leaned forward. It’s like a fucking see-saw.”

I laughed nervously.

“I guess. I just… I don’t touch people.”

He shook his head.

“Well, we’ll have to work on that.”

And then, we were out the door.

As we walked, DJ StrangeLove tried to keep me focused.

“When it comes to pickup, most people go in playing the ending. You want to sleep with a woman? You can’t go in with that objective. Before you sleep with her, before you kiss her, before you get to know her, you have to MEET her. Keep that in mind.”

I wasn’t keeping it in mind.

All I had in mind was to keep from crapping myself in the middle of Georgia Street.

We strolled into the Media Club fifteen minutes later, and the place was packed to the gills.

Even worse, it was a room full of hipsters.

The place was swimming in v-neck shirts and ironic facial-hair, the stage a contest over which band could wear the most radically different varieties of plaid without causing an explosion.

I looked at DJ StrangeLove in terror.

He winked.

“If you can start a conversation here, you can start one anywhere.”

I looked around in desperation.

“Don’t pick a target,” DJ StrangeLove shouted, “don’t think about it. You’ll just get nervous and fuck it up. If you’re going to start with anything, start with the closest.”

“Last time I was here, there were a bunch of dudes making out onstage,” I remarked, trying to stall him.

“Cool. Use it.

“What? But, it was gross.”

“Don’t say that. Say it was awesome.”

“But, it wasn’t.”

He slapped me on the back, harder than necessary.

“Look, it sounds counterintuitive, but a man comfortable making homoerotic comments is a man comfortable with his sexuality.”

“Won’t they just think I’m gay?”

He winked.

“Not once you have your cock inside them.”

My first approach was the girl from the coat-check.

Now, in my mind, this was cheating, since she had to talk to me, but, in the name of getting the ball rolling, I let it slide.

“Excuse m-” I said, and felt DJ StrangeLove’s elbow in my ribs.

She looked up.

“Should grow a beard, or what?”

“Um, what?”

She looked confused.

“Well, uh,” I said, floundering, “most of these guys have beards, and they’re, uh, having a good time. I figure-”

And, to my surprise, she screeched with laughter.

“Oh, definitely.”

“Well, thanks. Good to meet you. I’m Ian.”

She grinned, and we awkwardly shook hands.

“I’m Claire.”

And, just like that, we’d had a conversation.

The second approach was standing near the back. She asked if I was taking a survey or something.

The third was walking across the dance-floor, and, when I tried talking to her, fixed me with a withering look and continued on her way.

“You leaned in too far,” DJ StrangeLove remarked, “and pawed at her arm to get her attention. Don’t do that. It looks desperate. Lean back. Talk louder. Make her lean into you.”

The fourth was in the bathroom lineup. She laughed a lot.

The fifth was sitting with her friend by the dance-floor. They were so invested, they got into a debate, and started soliciting opinions from passers-by.

The sixth suggested sideburns.

The seventh recommended I shave my head altogether, just to be different.

To the eighth, I said:
“Hey, so my boyfriend and I were wondering: beard or no beard?”

She looked uncomfortable and walked away.

DJ StrangeLove grimaced.

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Then, just as I was zeroing in on number nine, the show started.

I was stunned.

I’d been so focused on my objective, I’d totally forgotten that a band was supposed to be playing.

And, right there in a nightclub, too.

Amazing.

As they plodded their way through a variety of uninspiring hipster dreck, I felt my heart-rate decrease. I’d spent the last forty minutes in the grip of mortal terror, and, now that it was over, I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. Unfortunately, until the band was finished, it would be impossible to make another approach, and, in realizing this, I immediately lost what little nerve I’d had.

The show ended, and, as soon as it was over, the Hipsters cleared out remarkably quickly.

Within minutes, the place was empty, and with them, my last chance of getting my last $40.

Riding the train home, I was completely dejected. I had failed.

But, then, as I thought back, I realized that this was the largest number of strangers I had ever talked to in a single evening.

And, to my surprise, I was still alive.

I hadn’t been slapped, or laughed at, or otherwise humiliated.

On the contrary, everyone had been friendly, and polite.

I felt my confidence surge, and with it, the resolve to continue.

I would keep trying, I vowed.

I would get better.

And whatever DJ StrangeLove threw at me, I would do it.

That confidence lasted until exactly 11:00 the next morning, when I got my first “homework assignment”.

]]> http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/claire/feed/ 1 http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/200-in-twenties/ http://thedependent.ca/entertainment/confessions/200-in-twenties/#comments Sun, 21 Feb 2010 09:26:43 +0000 Ian Hannon http://thedependent.ca/?p=77 I got this in my inbox this morning.

FUCK MY LIFE.

As some of you know, I made a Heroic Vow last weekend.

And, after a cinematic epiphany, and an unfortunate encounter with several chugged beers and a Ponytail Palm, I set out to fulfill it.

Which is how I ended up at Century.

Which is how I met DJ StrangeLove.

Which is how everything changed forever.

He wasn’t more than five feet tall.  His features were boyish and round, his complexion ruddy, his hair greasy, his nose oversized and flat.  His body seemed lumpy, and his shirt-and-tie outfit was blandly uniform.

He was, simply put, one of the most average-looking men I’d ever seen.

It was as though an unsuspecting Hobbit had wandered in from The Shire, and, on his way, accidentally crashed an office Christmas Party.

But, amongst our group of friends, he’d achieved a status  nothing short of legendary.  He was a mythical figure, a combination of Don Juan, Paul Bunyan and Obi-Wan Kenobi.  And, indeed, when dealing with any sort of examination of DJ StrangeLove, the stories had been told and retold so many times, that it had become impossible to differentiate truth from fiction.

The only hard facts I had on him were as follows:

Friendless throughout high school, he’d been a virgin until almost 25.  Then, using a mysterious system of his own devising, he’d suddenly become Vancouver’s very own Casanova, a title he held undisputed until his abrupt and equally mysterious retirement six months ago.

Beyond that, information gets pretty spotty.

There were rumours of a triple-digit body-count, of him regularly having four girlfriends simultaneously, being involved in dozens of threesomes, and one particularly infamous weekend where he’d been carnal with every chorus girl in an Arts Club show.  A friend had once told me, with a completely straight face, that DJ StrangeLove had slept with half the population of a small northern town.

He was a man’s man.

A ladies’ man.

A legend.

And, what’s worse, my friends believed it.  I felt sorry for them; eventually they’d have to accept that he was nothing more than a gifted liar with a flair for the dramatic.

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

Leon and I had arrived only twenty minutes earlier, running into him completely by accident, as he happened to turn around and exclaim, to no one in particular:

“Goddammit!  I hate turning down pussy!”

Obi-Wan Kenobi he was not.

We introduced ourselves, Leon exclaiming, in the throes of complete hero-worship:

“My buddy Ian here could totally use your help!”

DJ StrangeLove chuckled, clapping Leon on the shoulder.

“Hey, now.  You know I’m retired.”

Humiliated, I excused myself to the bar.

And, it was then, as I pushed my way through the crowd, that I saw her:

She was easily the best-looking girl in the room: brown hair, body plucked from the pages of Maxim Magazine, thighs barely covered by a slim, high-cut dress.

I tried approaching her twice that night.

But, each time, rather than saying anything, I’d abruptly chicken out, and retreat to the bar, where I’d spend the next ten minutes quietly loathing myself.

Later, I was in the bathroom, fuming, when I heard a voice.

“Well, that was pathetic.”

It was DJ StrangeLove.

I laughed, nervously, and made a mental note to hate him for the rest of my life.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

He stepped up to the urinal beside me.

“Picking up girls is like the lottery, mate.  You can’t win if you don’t play.”

Urinal Conversation always makes me uncomfortable.

Some people are perfectly happy to just chatter away, junk in hand, about the Canucks, or the Gateway Project, or their opinions on troop deployment in Gaza.  Not me.  So, having a short, ruddy man attempt to give me a Pep-Talk while standing at the cistern was not how I’d planned to spend my evening.

“Those cats out there,” he remarked, “they’re like the Infantry grunts at Normandy; throwing themselves, wave after wave at the shore, hoping one of ‘em’ll get through.  You’ve got to be cool.  Quiet.  Like a Sniper.  These kids are just firing blind.  You’ve got to go for the Head-Shot.”

This was turning into the longest piss of my life.

“Well, it can’t be that hard,” I replied, “you just have to be yourself, right?”

He gave a derisive snort, and zipped up.

“Fuck, no.  Being yourself isn’t enough.  In order to succeed, you’ve gotta be your best self.”

“I am.”

“Look at you.  You don’t even have the discipline to shave daily.”

“I can’t,” I insisted, “I have very sensitive skin.”

Eyes fierce, he clapped a hand on my shoulder.

This was monumentally uncomfortable, considering I was still holding my cock in my other hand.

“Look,” he said, “what kind of women you into?  I’m pretty sure the answer’s not: ‘average’.  You want to meet sexy, attractive, interesting women?  You’ve got to be sexy, attractive, and interesting yourself.”

“Well, that sounds like a lot of work.”

“Jesus,” he snorted, “you need more help than I thought.”

“I don’t need your help,” I jeered, “besides, you’re retired.”

He didn’t respond.  Merely gave me a condescending pat on the ass, and returned to the dance floor, flailing his arms like some pompous, frumpy windmill.

“Be your best self.”

What a bunch of Tony Robbins bullshit.

Photo Credit: Jesse Donaldson

By one AM, I’d had enough.

Other than Leon and DJ StrangeLove, I hadn’t talked to a soul all night.  I was tired and disgusted with myself, and I just wanted to go home.

As the three of us headed to the exit, I saw her for the last time:

The woman in the high-cut dress.

Walking our way, laughing, chatting with a friend.

I swallowed.  If I was ever going to say anything, it had to be now.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance.

“What?  You’re leaving?” she exclaimed.

My heart soared until I realized she was talking to DJ StrangeLove.

“Yeah,” he replied, shoving her playfully, “I gotta check out, woman.”

My head swam.  How did she even know him?  I hadn’t seen them exchange so much as a glance all evening.

Then, she gently pulled her hips against his, and, brushing her lips against his ear, whispered something that looked a lot like:

“Am I ever going to see you again?”

DJ StrangeLove smiled, pulled out his cell-phone, and, without a word, passed it to the girl, who eagerly punched in her number.

“I’m Alison,” she shouted.

“Cool, man,” he replied, “let’s totally hang out this week.  There’s a sweet musician’s showcase I want to check out, so maybe I’ll give you a shout.”

Then, walking away, he glanced over his shoulder, and said, with a wry smile:

“You know.  If you’re lucky.”

And, with one last playful shove, he vanished down the stairs.

Jesus Christ, I thought.

Head-shot.

Suddenly, I was a convert.  I was after him, babbling like an idiot; about ex-girlfriends and Ponytail Palms, and the 23 Average, and women in high-cut dresses, and my fears of dying alone.  To this day, I’m not sure how DJ StrangeLove made sense of my idiotic ramblings, but they must have triggered something within him, because suddenly, he turned to me and said:

“Sunday.  10:00.  The Media Club.”

“10:00?  Like, PM?”

“Yes.”

“But I have work the next day.”

“Well, in that case, maybe, you could build a castle.”

“What?”

I was mystified.

“You know, with all the sand from your vagina.”

He flipped open his phone, selected Alison’s number, and hit “Delete”.

Goddammit!” he exclaimed, “I hate turning down pussy.”

Then, he was gone.

And that was the prelude to the most terrifying night of my life.

A plant, and a magazine article.

Before all the craziness, before DJ StrangeLove, before the Ten Commandments, and the Approaches, and the Kinesthetic Response Training, it was just me, my empty apartment, and a mid-sized PonyTail Palm.

It had been a gift, of course.  A gift from a girl.

A girl with deep brown eyes and sandy hair, and a nose that wrinkled when she laughed.

Her name was Maggie.

At the time, she was the only girlfriend I’d ever had, and the first girl I’d ever met who actually chased me.  Naturally, I was suspicious at first, since any girl attracted to me would have to be operating at some elite level of total derangement, but, at the same time, the attention was intoxicating.

By my own best assessments, I wasn’t particularly attractive.

I mean, I wasn’t the Elephant Man, either, but I knew I certainly wasn’t a stud.  I had decent style, and enough sense not to wear black with blue.  I had a functional pair of skate-shoes that went with everything.  A collection of vintage t-shirts that were close to my size.  Baggy jeans that were nearing the end of their lives.  I was a solid 6/10.

Simply average.

In a rush of emotion, Maggie and I moved in together after only a few months.  For our first anniversary, she bought me a potted plant.  A PonyTail Palm, to be precise.

“Remember to water it, Ian,” she’d said.

Why she gave me a plant has always been something of a mystery to me.  Plants were her thing, not mine. I’d always been intensely suspicious of vegetation.

Anything that sits that quiet and serenely has got to be up to something.

But, to my eternal surprise, I really bonded with this little Beaucarnia Recurvata.  I cared for it.  I got up every morning and watered it and positioned it in the window with the best sunlight.  It had never occurred to me that I might form any sort of meaningful relationship with a plant.  Especially not one with a name that sounded more like an unfortunate venereal condition than a species of flora.

But, by this point, my relationship with Maggie was getting pretty rocky.  Things continued steadily downhill, and, as the months wore on, this plant became the only tangible evidence that our love had ever existed at all.  By caring for it, and tending to it, it was as if, by extension, I was caring for her.

It bloomed the week she moved out.

By this time, in addition to the Ponytail Palm, she had purchased sixteen additional plants, which hung or perched in every available area of the apartment.     The place had started to look like a rainforest.

Then, just like that, she was gone, leaving me with an empty apartment, a few pieces of furniture, and the Florida fucking Everglades.  Without even asking, she just left me to care for her plants, and water them, and nurture them.

And the worst part of it is: I did.

I spent those first few weeks in a daze: a constant zombie-state of working, commuting, sleeping.  Eating ice-cream straight from the container.  Sitting in my underwear, taking bong hits, watching awful streaming movies on surfthechannel.com

Slowly, my affection for the Ponytail Palm turned into stark hatred.  I began to dream of revenge, indulging in guilty fantasies about hacking it to bits with a kitchen knife, lobbing it out a third-story window, or tossing it into a big, giant pit of fire, and watching with private satisfaction as it slowly burnt to a crisp.

But I couldn’t do it. I was still so hung up on her that all I could do was water it, and care for it, and hope it would somehow bring her back.

Weekend after lonely weekend passed, and with it, a steadily-growing list of girls I was too afraid to talk to.

The girl by the window, with the plaid shirt and the nose-ring.

The girl at the checkout counter with the high-pitched laugh.

I wished I could have said hello.  I wished I could have waved, or shared a laugh, or a smile.

Not only did I want to, but I needed to.  My inability to come out of my shell was preventing me from doing the things I loved.  It was crippling me.

It was an article in MacLean’s Magazine that ultimately drove me to the brink of despair.

And, for once, it wasn’t because of the quality of the writing.

It was one of those semi-annual sex-survey pieces, the kind that’s designed to tell you how much sex everybody else is having, and how much they’re enjoying it, and how often, and exactly what you’re missing for being a sissy bitch that you can’t speak in anything but vowels to a woman you don’t know.  Next to the obligatory charts and pie-graphs, it stated that the average number of sex-partners for a Canadian Male was 23.

“Jesus!” I snorted, when I read it.

23 women?

Who took this fucking poll?

Zeus?

At the time, I’d been involved with somewhat less than this.

In fact, it had been significantly less than this.

In fact, it had been exactly one more than one.

I tried to justify it.

I didn’t even want to sleep with 23 women.  What I wanted was friendship and lasting affection– a relationship.  I wanted to meet the love of my life.

Reading this, alone in my apartment, I came to a decision:

I’d been in exile for long enough.

I needed to get out.

I needed to meet people.

It was no longer a hollow resolution.

I considered it my Heroic Vow.

Granted, it probably would have seemed considerably more heroic if I hadn’t made it while wearing nothing but four-year-old sweat-pants, clutching a half-eaten pot of lukewarm mac-and-cheese, but it was the content that was important, not the context.

Suddenly, I was filled with purpose.

I rushed to the fridge, cracked a beer, and drained it.

Then another.

And another.

Then, I jogged to the phone, and made a call.

“Leon, it’s me,” I said, “come over, fucker.  We’re going out tonight.”

I hung up without even waiting for a response.

My heart was pounding.  My head was swimming with excitement, and the slight buzz from the three rapidly-downed beers.

I was empowered.  I was alive.

After more than a year, I was free.

It was at that moment that I caught sight of the Ponytail Palm, sitting quietly in the corner.

“Remember to water it, Ian,” she’d always said.

A smile crossed my face.

And suddenly, there I was, dancing around the apartment in a frenzy of abandon, tearing plants up by their roots, kicking over pots, pulling off leaves and letting them rain down upon me.

Then, I undid my zipper, lowered my pants, waddled over to the Ponytail Palm and, a song on my lips, gave the thing a little watering of my own.

It was at that instant that the door burst open.

Leon and I looked at one another for a moment, frozen.

Him, standing in the doorway, eyes wide.

Me, fists raised high, pants around my ankles, standing over a rapidly-wilting Ponytail Palm with an expression of triumph on my face.

“Jesus!  What the fuck, Ian?”

Admittedly, not my best revenge.

There’s just never a big, giant, pit of fire around when you need one.