It took me a further two days to get up the courage to call her.

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.

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?”

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.”