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.