Step 3 – The First Words
Some books suggest it is not important what you say to a woman you’re interested in getting to know. That the key is to say something. Anything. Just make that initial contact. This is a lie. Those first words are critical. They will mark you forever.
A woman can remember what shoes you were wearing when she first met you. She can remember how many beers you had on your first date and she can remember what was playing on the radio when you dropped her off at her place afterwards. She can remember what the weather was like the night you made love for the first time. So you can be pretty damn sure that she is going to remember your first words to her. If women had memories like men, it would be less important for you to choose your words that carefully.
Throughout the evolution of modern man (1975–2004), there have been women standing with one eyebrow raised and a hand on the hip, saying, “Are you telling me that you don’t remember?” Cornered, we turn sullen. We become skulking dogs, sick at the thought of having nowhere to run. It is futile to try to busk your way through, because any attempt at feigning a sudden recollection is swiftly followed by a string of questions designed to break you down.
“Okay! I don’t remember! Okay? Jesus. It’s not the end of the world!” By now you are so traumatised that you can barely remember your way to the bedroom. That’s the end of the conversation and you slink off, painfully aware that for the next few weeks all you will be licking are your wounds.
While it is vitally important to choose your first words and remember them and remember her reply and what she was drinking and what skirt she was wearing and whether or not a soft rain was falling, it is equally important to remember her name when you first meet her. There are only a certain number of times that a woman is going to respond politely to the question: “Sorry, you are …? Especially if she claims to have told you her name three times already. You could try blaming the tequila. But if she is not a wolf, it’s not going to wash. Actually, if she is a wolf she is not going to care too much what you call her.
Repeatedly forgetting her name will eventually make her forget your name. She will start calling you Drunk. Do not argue. Accept the name and push on. Or push off, depending on the look on her face.
The first words used in the first move should be dictated by what the woman is doing with her face. Watch her closely as she interacts with her friends. That’s assuming she is with friends. If she is alone she could be with the police. Or she might be a hooker. Either way, you are going to end up paying dearly should you decide to make the first move.
But assuming she is what you think she is, keep your eyes on her for a few minutes. If she is the bubbly one in the group, the one who regularly shrieks with laughter and tosses her mane hither and yon, then it is best not to approach her with lines like: “Do you believe that when someone says ‘I breathe, therefore I am’ and purports to demonstrate his existence from the fact that breathing could not exist without it, he demonstrates nothing at all, for he would first have had to prove that it is true that he breathes, and this is impossible without also having proved that he exists?”
It’s a long shot, but she may well respond with: “What do I think? I think you’re putting Descartes before Des Horse.” If she does, then you’ve met your soul mate. Congratulations. However, it is far more likely that she will tell you to fuck off.
Once you are sufficiently intoxicated to make the first move, it is important to make sure she doesn’t see you coming. Blindside her if you can. You do not want a situation where she notices you the moment you stand up on the other side of the room and begin walking purposefully towards her. She is not going to smile encouragingly and wave you over. Her eyes are going to widen in what you correctly assume to be horror. She will lower her head and turn slowly to her friends. They will all swivel in their chairs to look at you. Against all the laws of physics, you will find yourself walking in slow motion. Everyone, apart from the goddess, is staring at you. Then all of her friends will collapse in hysterics, as if somebody at the table has just said something incredibly funny.
At this point you have two choices. Allow nothing to deviate you from your mission, knowing that by losing the element of surprise you run the risk of being crushed beneath an avalanche of biting put-downs once you reach her table. If you are feeling confident and on top of your game (the Nigerians never ripped you off, for once), and you are convinced that you will have a witty comeback for anything they might throw at you, then go right in. The regret will be almost instantaneous. Your second choice is to change direction. This is a problem if her table is in the corner and you are quite clearly headed for nowhere else but the corner. All you can do then is stop, narrow your eyes and look down. Give yourself a sharp slap on the forehead, turn and walk quickly away. Make for the exit. This creates the impression that you have just remembered you have a patient lying in theatre waiting for open-heart surgery. It could also create the impression that there is something seriously wrong with you. But since you can never again return to this place, what do you care?
Given the hazards of forewarning, it is far wiser to approach by stealth. This catches her off-guard and significantly increases your chances of getting her to fall in love with you.
There is a reason why lions stalk their prey instead of hanging around on the fringes of the herd flexing their haunch muscles and tossing their manes in the hope that a gullible young springbok will come on over for a closer look.
The direct approach has its drawbacks. On many occasions throughout history, a man’s opening gambit has led to bloodshed. Bars have erupted in violence through a misplaced word. Every hospital in the world has a small quota of male patients lying in traction, wondering what it was that they said.
But despite the inherent dangers, the direct approach has an impressive success rate. Depending on where you are, of course. You may not want to try it in a taverna in a small fishing village on a remote part of Crete. Especially not if the seventeen glasses of retsina you drank for courage are making you speak in a thick, guttural slur that could easily be mistaken for German.
But it might well work in an all-night subterranean absinthe bar in Pamplona’s barrio gottica at the frenzied height of the San Fermin festival.
There are many, many words to choose from when deciding on your opening line. Dictionaries are full of them. But the secret lies in choosing the right ones and then stringing them together in a sequence that makes sense. All too often, men forget these basic guidelines and go in with a mish-mash of mixed metaphors and crippled syntax. Nothing turns a woman off faster than a man who dangles his participles in public. You don’t have to be Shakespeare. Actually, that’s a bad example. Nobody I know has the faintest idea of what he was on about. But you don’t have to be Mike Tyson, either. I have overheard men approach women with lines like: “Hey, babe, you’re like a … you got … psshhhh, you … I just want to …. Ay … know what I mean?”
There has to be an element of persuasiveness in every opening gambit. Women no longer trust men, so they have to be persuaded to do pretty much everything from making the bed to making love. And that takes eloquence and a nimble mind.
At the best of times, men are hopeless when it comes to explaining themselves. Even when they have done nothing wrong. This is why women have evolved into such good listeners. They know that they have one shot at catching it. If they miss it the first time around, they run the risk of getting a completely different version because now the man has had time to revise his original statement. Then the woman is beholden to say: “That’s not what you said …” and you have to respond with: “I thought you never heard me …” and this kind of exchange should happen after ten years of marriage, not ten minutes of conversation.
Original words work best. Don’t be put off by the fact that there seem to be so few original women left. Even the carbon copies are open to new approaches. Women of almost any mental capacity are instinctively attracted to seemingly intelligent men. They never admit to being out of their depth. Strangely, the converse does not apply.
A stupid man will not respond well to a smart woman. He knows that nothing but a whole bunch of sniggering and scorn lies ahead should he decide to pursue the bright young thing. There’s a reason why Cruella de Ville was a woman. And it’s not just because she looked good in Dalmatian.
It is vital that you tailor your words to fit not only the woman, but the circumstances, too. Recounting your first experience with anal sex inside an abandoned abattoir just as she sinks her choppers into her cheeseburger is not going to be appreciated. Be sensitive. Remember, you are not simply giving her a line so that you can score a quick shag. As I have pointed out, this is not that kind of book. You want her to fall in love with you. You want to be with this woman for the rest of your life. You wish you had ovaries so that you could have her babies. Never tell her this, of course. Ovary envy is just too weird for most women to handle.
To know which words to use, you have to know the different categories into which women fall. Only then can you accurately match the words to the women. Mismatching can be disastrous. It often leads to marriage and later – when she realises she completely misunderstood what you were saying – to homicide or divorce. This is something you want to avoid.
Some typical genres of modern women
Supervised studies undertaken in Switzerland have shown that bitchiness is a genetic trait in all women. Apparently it clings to oestrogen like a sucker fish to a shark as it courses through the body.
Bitches have to be watched like hawks. Turn your back on them for a moment and they have not only destroyed your self-confidence, but also your chances with every other single girl within a 500km radius. As a man, your reputation and your erection are all that you really have going for you. The Bitch will not hesitate to destroy either, and all she needs is her mouth to do it.
I am not saying you should avoid a woman simply because you detect a little Bitch in her. If that were the case, you may as well slip into a pair of silver spandex lederhosen and wander the slopes of Table Mountain yodeling in the hope that your soul mate will find you.
If you come across a Bitch who you think needs to fall in love with you, then you should be armed with more than a quick wit and a crumpled Rough Rider.
Any woman with too much Bitch in her oestrogen has invariably had a recent encounter with a Bastard. Bastard is a genetic trait found in all men, but more on that later.
This does not mean the Bitch hates men. Far from it. All it means is that she is provoking you into some sort of reaction so that she may more fully get the measure of you as a man. This is interesting territory and I would urge any man who finds himself in this situation to press on and not give up and walk away mumbling “bitch” under his breath, however tempting it may be. She will brand you a chickenshit mollusk and word will spread quickly. It is far better to take her on.
Some adults say mind games are childish and that they have no time for them. However, they only say this because they do not know how to play. Mind games, like all the best games, have no rules. Small wonder, then, that the anally retentive among us scorn what they regard as a trivial pursuit. Mind games test your wits and, if played properly, make your partner question her sanity. This is good for any relationship and let nobody tell you otherwise.
Since the Bitch will be analysing and appraising you according to the way you respond to her disagreeable manner, it is vital that you take a tack diametrically opposite to the one that you would normally take. Once she thinks she has you sewn up, you can begin letting bits of the real you leak out. Keep a serviette handy. Bitches are easily confused because their mean-spiritedness is often no more than a cheap glossy varnish on vulnerable bits that have grown tender and sore after too much exposure to, well, to men like you, I suppose.
The Bimbo is a woman who has successfully managed to mutate her Bitch gene into something more useful. Not many people know this, but the word originates from the ancient Uzbek phrase “bim” meaning “stupid” and “bo” meaning “goddess”. The inherent contradiction goes a long way towards explaining why this Soviet republic is in the state that it is today.
To be honest, few Bimbos will be found signing up for classes at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. But they can certainly be found playing pool in some of the best pubs around Harvard Square. I have seen them with my own eyes. In fact, I spoke to a couple of them while I was in Cambridge wrapping up some unfinished business, and I can tell you that while they are not stupid, they certainly haven’t done much reading. But this is no reason to condemn them. Three-quarters of the population of Africa has not read a book, and does the rest of the world shun them? Okay, bad example.
Bimbos exist for several reasons, one of which is to offset the number of ugly people in the world. Even amateur metaphysicists know that every action has a reaction, and there is no reason why this should be any different. It is all about balance.
How sad it would be if all we ever saw were ugly women. The world is already full of poor people and they make a depressing enough sight for those of us with money. Bimbos are like songbirds on a cloudy day. They are sunspots on a stormy sea. They are pools of warm honey for the badgers of this world. But more about badgers later.
If you have your heart set on a Hippy, it is important to ascertain that she is genuine. There are many women out there who dress and act like Hippies, but they are not real Hippies. They do this for several reasons, one of which is to attract men who are attracted to Hippies. These men are generally well-read and sensitive and know how to tell their oyster mushrooms from their liberty caps. They are in touch with the planet and they can access their inner child on demand. They can raise kids, corn and kundalini with equal measure. But only if they are genuine. And this is where things often fall apart.
There are plenty of non-Hippy men out there pretending to be Hippies so that they can snare themselves a Hippy woman. This is because Hippy women (if they are genuine) are into unfertilised eggs, unpretentious clothing and unprotected sex. In a world full of Bimbos and Bitches, this is frequently seen as a refreshing alternative. However, what frequently happens is that a pseudo Hippy man will charm the Indian skirt right off a fake Hippy woman and it takes years before they realise that neither of them have been inhaling and that both of them far prefer actuarial science to organic vegetables. They are harmless but you don’t really want them as your friends.
If you want to find out if your Hippy is real or not, the acid test (well, that too) is to ask her if she voted in the last election. Real Hippies reject all political systems because they are based on authority and control, anathema to the true flower child. Of course, there is always the danger that your Hippy turns out to be a bomb-happy anarchist who would be caught dead in a polling booth. Ah, what the hell. If she smells good in patchouli oil, go for it.
If you are in a bar, she will be the one ordering the drinks, harassing the waiter for being too slow and deciding who drinks what. She will also be the one making a very deliberate point of ignoring you.
Bosses have a tendency to come across as extremely asexual, much like garden snails. What a pity, then, that they don’t shrivel up and foam at the mouth when their lips touch the salt rim of their pretentious marguerita glasses.
If it is a Boss you are looking for, then the odds are you are suffering from some sort of hormonal or mineral deficiency. Controlled studies have shown that, like the Bitch, all women have varying degrees of Boss in them. It is contained in that spare X chromosome that makes them women in the first place.
Most have been trained to suppress this gene, but the training is wearing thin with every new generation. We have all heard the expression: “She Who Must Be Obeyed”. But what started off as a B-grade movie joke has turned into an A-grade nightmare for every red-blooded male who grew up under the impression that he was in charge.
Some self-help books say that apportioning blame does not help. I have never heard such rubbish in my entire life. If we all went around not blaming each other for the terrible things that happen, what kind of world would that be? I will tell you. It would be a world where nobody takes responsibility for their actions. Hang on. That’s exactly the kind of world I want to live in. I might have to rethink this bit.
Domination is not necessarily a bad a thing, but it has its place. Its place is not in the kitchen making sure that the dishes are cleaned properly, nor is its place outside on the veranda nagging for the lawn to be mown. Its place is not following you around the house shouting at you for having come home drunk at three in the morning. I think it is a crying shame that these domestic dominatrixes can be found everywhere except in the bedroom.
If you really want a Boss, in addition to the penishead who controls you at work, then at least make sure you get one who will allow you to order the wine at dinner. Even if you can’t tell a Fruity Chardonnay from an Augustus Pinochet, insist on ordering the wine. Be brave. If necessary, use your steak knife to fight her for the wine list. Remember that the Napoleonic wars could not have been fought and won without the first ship casting off.
She looks like a real-life animation from a warm, fuzzy Disney film. She is soft at the edges and has big eyes that stare in wonderment at everything that happens around her. When getting to know her, it is important to make sure that she is not afflicted with that disease which makes your eyes big and staring.
The Pushover is often quite small and pretty in the face area. While the rest of the table hurls abuse at the blind rose seller, she rather sheepishly buys one. She has the look of a peasant girl who is about to fall in love in a Merchant-Ivory movie. There is a dreamy quality about her. She has never been hurt by a man. The Pushover is often a virgin once removed. Actually, often removed quite inadvertently by riding her favourite horse a little too hard. She might even have slept with one or two men and has known nothing but amicable endings. Put on the kid gloves, the gentle smile and make your approach. No, that would be predatory. It would be like canned hunting and we all know there is very little sport in that.
Come to think of it, I have no advice for anyone wanting a Pushover to fall in love with them. I think you simply want to push her over and fall on top of her. And this is not that kind of book. Go and find another one, you sick puppy. Try the Religion section. At least you might find redemption.
The Desperado will be making eye contact with every remotely eligible man in the place. It is likely that she has recently been dumped and is on the rebound. You have the advantage because she is vulnerable. Make use of it before someone else does. Her self-esteem has taken a beating and you are just the person to give it back to her.
Desperados make good lovers because they try that much harder to please. No matter how tempted you may be, never abuse their generosity. Remember that deep down, they still harbour unresolved feelings of resentment towards men. When it comes time to deal with that, it is best to agree with everything she says. All men are bastards. That includes you. Swallow your pride and go with it. Hang your head in shame. Pay for the sins of men. Try to avoid developing a messiah complex.
You will have to convince her that you are not like the rest of them, and certainly nothing like that bastard who stole her heart, used her body and disappeared with all the negatives. It won’t be easy. There may even be times when you think she is showing an altogether unnatural interest in your sister. Be strong. Unless you actually catch them in bed together, you are still in with a fine chance of landing the desperado of your dreams.
Some men find gym bunnies terribly cute. Personally, I find them disturbing aberrations of nature. Men need to be physically strong to be able to run the world and remove beer bottle tops with their teeth. Women do not need muscles. Besides, the female metabolism is designed to work at a different rate to that of the male. Women can get all the exercise their bodies need through sex and housework. It’s how much effort they put into it that counts. Some men cover their bedroom walls with mirrors to convince their wives that even if they are not having much fun they are still getting a good workout, so the hour is not completely wasted.
The gym is a relatively modern invention (circa Richard Branson). In the old days, women were built to chop wood and carry two children on each hip. They were big, no doubt about it, and men expected nothing less. Skinny women were avoided because there was a very good chance that they had the Black Plague. Or, even worse, did not know how to cook.
At some point, women began watching what they ate and started exercising. The catalyst for this behavioural change remains shrouded in mystery, although neighbour Ted believes that women began losing weight and working out around the time that beer was discovered. His reasoning is that the male hunter – a lean, well-built specimen – would return from a day of slaying wild beasts and immediately fall upon the generous folds of his fleshy woman. Then one day his woman whipped up a whole new soup made from malt, sugar, hops and water. The next day he had his mates around and it wasn’t long before all the women in the tribe were making soup around the clock. Soon enough, the wild beasts began openly sniggering at the sight of the hunter dragging his enormous belly around the bush. Returning home once again empty-handed, he tried to fall upon his corpulent woman and bounced right off. They both had such big bellies that even when they had their bodies pressed together, their rude bits were still a good half-metre apart. The man flatly refused to give up his soup, so it was left to the woman to shed her load. She trimmed right down, took a young lover and went on to become editor of the first primitive women’s magazine. The rest is history.
Only a very small percentage of women are lesbians as a result of eating genetically modified foods. Most are lesbians either because it is trendy or because they have had a rash of bad experiences and cannot bear the thought of facing another naked man. If you have the misfortune to pick on a mutant, there is not much advice I can give you. Keep your guard up and protect your groin. Don’t try to run. Back away slowly.
If, however, it is the more common Type B lesbian that has caught your attention, then you are in with a splendid chance of getting her to fall in love with you. The real challenge in trying to get her to go home with you lies in your approach. For a start, you are going to have to be very, very sensitive. Rodney, an ex-guitarist with a band that only ever played one gig in public, told someone who told me that he had a friend whose cousin told him that he was sensitive to a woman once and that it almost got him killed. There was probably more to the story but I can’t remember what it was. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that to snag the Type B lesbian, you are going to have to dig deep and unleash your inner woman. A word of warning. Do not try to fake it.
Type B lesbians are masters when it comes to superficiality and they will not hesitate to crush your kneecaps and stomp on your crumpled body should they suspect you are working an angle. You have to suppress every vestige of your masculinity and relate to them on an entirely different level. Only then will they open up enough to allow you to take them home and play gentle music to them and whisper soft words and massage their feet until their defences are sufficiently lowered for you to move slowly southward.
Essentially, you have to pretend to be a woman trapped in a man’s body. This is the only way you are going to win their trust. It is not as difficult as it sounds. Any moron can memorise a few lines of Dorothy Parker’s poetry or learn how to write a haiku while taking a pee at the same time. It’s only three lines, for god’s sake. How hard can it be? You also have to make your hands and lips very soft. Aloe juice works for some. I was in this position once but there was no aloe juice around so I used the juice of the Agave cactus instead. A word of warning. Even though tequila is a close relative of the aloe family, it will not do much for your lips. It will, however, make other parts of your body soft.
Talking to a Type B lesbian can be a lot of fun, but only if you are able to revert to type. Gregoire, a French expatriate friend of somebody I met by chance in a Sea Point supermarket just as it was closing, said he once met a Type B lesbian in a nightclub and was completely blown out of his culottes by the way she danced. Being French, he had no trouble getting in touch with his feminine side and within seven hours he was licking the last of her lower back and offering to make fluffy omlettes for breakfast. Then, when it came time to get dressed and go home, he couldn’t face putting on his coarse Levi jeans and instead began rifling through her skirts.
Look, I am not homophobic. Some of my best friends are as bent as paperclips. All I am saying is be careful out there. If you are going to get in touch with your feminine side, make sure you know the way back home.
She is the one constantly checking her watch for the time and her cellphone for messages. Her eyes dart nervously around the room. She laughs a lot. Mostly at the wrong times. If you observe really closely, you will see her sneak a quick gnaw on her nails. She seems to be neurotic, but you can never be sure about these things. She could just as well be on the finest amphetamine sulphate this side of Silicone Valley. But despite the twitches and tics, she is quite the most exquisite creature you have ever set eyes on.
A friend will lean over and whisper something in her ear. She will collapse with laughter. Her whole body is convulsed with laughter. After a while it looks like she might actually be sobbing. But despite the warning signs, you can’t help yourself. You bolt your drink and go over to talk to her.
She comes across like a highly-strung racehorse that can’t bear the feeling of a jockey on its back, and yet can’t live without it. Proceed with caution. Try to find out why she is so jittery. Nine times out of ten, she is bordering on hysteria after staying awake for three straight nights because Roger dumped her for no reason at all and now he won’t return her calls. Either that, or she is out of lithium.
If she tries to explain her behaviour on the grounds that she is menstruating, excuse yourself and pretend to go and buy a drink. When you reach the door, run like hell. There is no proven physical cause for any psychiatric disorder and anyone who says otherwise is lying through their teeth and cannot be trusted with your heart.
Can be difficult to identify unless you are accompanied by one of those Zulu matriarchs whose job it is to check that teenage girls are intact before allowing them to shake their reeds at the king. Even then, it is unlikely she will agree to co-operate. Especially if the bar is crowded.
The best thing about virgins is that they do not know the difference between good sex and bad sex. So if you do manage to snare one, make sure she never has an affair. The only way to do this is to lock her up in a tower and ensure that she keeps her hair short. Bring her out only in times of drought.
One of the biggest phallicies is that women do not enjoy sex as much as men. They most certainly do, only not always with you. All women are born Nymphomaniacs. However, the uncontrollable desire to mate with men slender of hip and fat of wallet does not manifest itself to the same degree in each woman. Girls, far more than boys, are told from an early age not to do handstands while wearing skirts. But there is always one in every class who deliberately defies convention and brashly hoiks up her skirt and goes on to do cartwheels, the high jump and even the pole vault. It is not until every boy in the grade is following her about, slack-jawed and flushed, that she realises just how much power she wields. But, bless her, instead of going into politics, she goes into oestrus.
A lot of potential Nymphomaniacs were left sexually repressed as a result of the handstands and dresses indoctrination. They were led to believe from a young age that boys were little more than sex-crazed beasts whose depravity knows no limits, and this scared the pants on them for the rest of their lives. Quite tragic, really.
There has been a strange and subtle paradigm shift in the way that social interaction is conducted in bars, sports clubs, gynaecologist’s waiting rooms and other places where men know that women gather in large numbers. In the old days (1995-2002) a man would home in on a woman with the prospect of his own sexual gratification uppermost in his mind. Now, however, he has been bombarded with so much information about Female Desire Disorder that he thinks long and hard before approaching anyone for fear that she will react like a woolly mammoth that has been trapped in pack ice for the last three thousand years.
The peculiar thing is, even though a suprising number of men (93.8%) fantasise about having a Nymphomaniac fall in love with them, most would not be able to deal with the situation should it arise.
When it comes to pace, style and strategy, men want to dominate and dictate. In short, they are dominant dictators with predatorial instincts. So when they are confronted by a woman who, the moment the bedroom door closes, turns into a voracious sexual beast capable of communicating only by grunting and moaning, they quickly lose their alpha maleness which is so essential to a healthy erection … I mean, relationship.
The situation is not improved when she talks him into a pair of rubber handcuffs and then swallows the key. It is around about now that he realises she is suffering from a deep psychological disorder and has begun displaying symptoms unrelated to a fun-filled evening of chilled champagne and playful sex.
But let is be said that nymphos are not sluts and nor are they hookers, although they might well be if they stopped shrieking and whooping long enough to realise how much money they could make from their disorder.
To be continued …