Lessons From My Cat - Part 5

Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea. 

Robert A Heinlein

Since reading "The Game" back when it first was published, I've been an admirer of the Society of Pick-Up Artists. The book itself was a minor triumph of genius, and the world it describes a testament to single-mindedness. Men with the wherewithal to dedicate their entire beings to bedding babes deserve my admiration, if not outright respect. 

The PUA devotion to duty isn't for everyone. If all guys were out there peacocking, it would be a weird world all around. And, of course, the magic would stop working. Differentiation is a large part of being a PUA - without slobs, there's no advantage. If everyone can afford an iPhone, the aspirational price difference disappears.  

Women, fortunately, aren't iPhones, even if they're both beautiful, smooth and weighted just right. Women don't have the same kind of focus on men, because they don't need the same kind of focus. There is no PUA movement for ladies. Which isn't to say that women aren't interested in finding the hot guy, because obviously they are. It's just that their tactics are different. 

Cats provide the best way of explaining how this works. A cat's focus, like a woman's, can change in a split second. Right now my cat might be grooming, looking as content as can be; then suddenly she's off inspecting her territory, checking the fence-line. Instantly, she'll stop and spend thirty minutes staring into space, as if she's waiting for someone to tell her how beautiful she is, and the next she'll be sitting on my keyboard actively pushing for attention. It's all very....unpredictable. If you're a male, that is. 

The recipe for men here is to understand the following: 

+ don't ever attempt to predict a woman; it will drive you crazy.

+ be consistent; I give my cat shelter, food, warmth, love and care at all times. I am rewarded with affection on her timetable. That's the deal. Consider being a rock with your woman.

+ the above doesn't stop me trying to get a purr started; no harm in trying.

+ it's a weird quantum universe, so you'll never know what your woman sees in you. Don't think about it. Just be the best you can be, and all good things will follow. 

+ women's sexual motor doesn't idle like ours; it can be off altogether, and will require starting. (See purr-starting attempts above.) Mostly if you're good, it'll work, but there's no certainty. If you fail, wait a while and try again. 

+ work with what you're given.

You see, although I think the PUA guys are on to something, it's a very long ride to a short payoff. The lads are constantly paddling into the surf break to find the one wave that's going in their direction. The other way is to be at one with the ocean, sit quietly on your board and wait for the wave to come to you. 

Bottoms Up, Surfriding Dudes.

Friday Fluffer - It's Just A Weird Situation All Round

Elle Macpherson pic credit.

Not that Elle would ever be a fluffer. Although who knows what floats her 155' boat?

For the last Friday Fluffer of 2011, I give you the BEST way yet discovered to create pet names. Actually, I'm serious. This works, if only for a laugh. SFW.





Bottoms Up Sexy Candy Pandas.

Love Matador

 Paz Vega photo credit.

The PUA community is fully aware of the value of dressing to impress. Overdressing, actually, with the aim of making themselves the centre of attention. Peacocking they call it.

Grabbing and maintaining a woman's eye is the aim, and a quirky or bright outfit will help. The theory is that once you set yourself apart from the shlubs in flops and cargo pants, bedding a woman is then a matter of time.

The lads are probably right.

In Florida, where I live, a man in a long-sleeved shirt creates a stir. If he's in a business suit with necktie and polished shoes, the local television news sends an outside broadcast unit. Of course the climate mitigates against much more than shorts and a flamingo-print shirt, but still; we're a state of slobs.

So I have a vision, thanks to Katherina. The most colourful and distinctive male outfit I can think of is that of the matador. I'm SO tempted to dress myself as a torero - accessorized with hat and blood-red cape - and go about my day. In the morning I'd take my espresso, go to the bank and pump some gas. In the afternoon, naturally, a siesta. And then at then at cocktail hour I'd head to my favourite bar trailing a line of swooning females.

I'd be like a Bullfighting Pied Piper.





Bottoms Up, Picadors.

Buffing Your Lucky

Here's a recipe:

  ~ Find one ripe woman whose divorce finalized within the last week.

  ~ Add five of her sorority sisters in town for the weekend.

  ~  Wrap all six in sexy dresses and tasty heels.

  ~ Supply them with two cars and designated drivers for the night. 

  ~ Marinate the ladies in quality vodka and just enough bar snacks.

Serve to any lecherous man within five-inch heel walking distance.

After a couple of hours and three nightspots, the mission of the night became clear - to find the recently singlefied Sister a new man. In essence, her married Greeks chat up whatever blokes they found with complete deniability - it's not for them, they're finding a new dude for her.

They're buffing her lucky. (Peals of uninhibited laughter.)








Bottoms Up, Pledgers.

Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite

In the eighties, impending lovers would concern themselves with HIV; in the nineties it was herpes; this decade saw a resurgence of syphilis. All that is history, because from now on, romantic fear will be of bugs.

Bedbugs, to be accurate, which have found a foothold in beds all over the country and are looking to make a home in a mattress near you. Really near you.

(Ohio is allegedly bedbug central, but that's sure to be New York elitists blaming innocent Midwesterners to divert attention.)

Consider this quote from a University of Kentucky study:

95% of U.S. pest management companies surveyed said they had 'encountered a bedbug infestation in the past year'.

Quoted from this Business Week article which neatly summarizes the problem. [link]

We'll look back on the last thirty years as a golden age, a period of insect-free sleep and fearless lying on perfect strangers' beds. Back then, careful folks would insist on blood tests to prove sex-worthiness; from now on they'll want a pest inspector's report.

Chat-up lines will morph, too. Men will sidle up to women in bars and whisper in their ears:

Hey honey, my place got sprayed today. Wanna come back and smell the DDT?

As the New York Times notes, there is no chemical that can reliably kill our new wee bedmates on a large scale. So I'd say it's back to sex on hard surfaces, like bathroom vanity units and hoods of cars. I guess it could be worse.






Bottoms Up, Nibblers!


Pic of lady bedbug from here [link]

Selling Yourself.

Similarities between successful selling and successful dating include being proud of the product you're selling. Dating is partially about selling yourself, if only in a passive way. It's about attracting people too - being sold to - so all we daters are partly customers and partly salespeople.

Some folks are quite aggressive with their salesmanship. Whether that means they have greater faith in themselves as a product than someone with a gentler style isn't clear to me. A case could be made for the in-your-face dater as someone with less faith in their ability to attract the special one, or it might just be too much booze.

Pick-Up Artists fall into the over-selling category. The Game is full of characters who push themselves beyond their usual boundaries to attract women. They're studies in overcoming natural disbelief in themselves by overcompensating in the chase. Such effort is exhausting. It stands to reason that the PUA world is full of burned-out cases, with the notable exception of those who make money teaching their particular sales pitch to others.

The other kind of dater is the one who relies less on sales and more on attraction. Traditionally women comprise the largest portion of this category, but that's changing. My most recent successes in the dating department have come because the woman chose me; she pitched me with herself, and gave me the choice. The transaction is more subtle than I'm expressing it here, but the energy direction is accurate.



Bottoms Up, Product Marketers!


Pic from Pining for Nordstrom [link]

Edited for the usual poor quality expression.

Who are you really?

Learning how to sell is largely about listening. A gratifying part of being a better salesman is succeeding in silencing your own voice so you can hear what other people are communicating - what they're really saying.

Here's what I discovered while listening to people talk: we constantly tell everyone who we are. I reckon that within the first twenty sentences, the person you're with will tell you what's on their mind, what they think about that thing, and they will reveal a large measure of who they are.

What I used to do was to prepare my answer or reply way before the other person finished speaking. Before the first few words of each sentence were out of the other person's mouth, I was ready to fire my thoughts back. Conversations like this aren't communication, they're two concurrent monologues.

I remember from a long-ago marketing class that communication has two parts. First is the communication, then there is feedback. Knowing this and holding it in mind changes the dynamics of conversations, especially conversations with a new, possibly datable, person.

That's what I concentrate on now, listening to the woman, and giving great feedback. The unanticipated consequence of this is that very early on, without even thinking about it, I can tell if she's for me or not. It's easier to move on (rather than make a move) if you can see who she really is, rather than who she says she is.



Bottoms Up, Listeners!



Edited for pic, simplicity and clarity.

Pic from here [link]

Brodeo

I pretty much gave up on my regular Friday bar on Friday. A long day labouring for money gives a bloke a thirst, and when booze alone can't release the animal spirits, the potential for finding women will tip the balance. Still dripping with Working Stiff cologne, I made Happy Hour with a minute to spare.

It's a hamster-wheel life, single maledom. It's one in which we are handily practiced at dismembering women with a head-to-toe glance. (That's a metaphoric dismemberment, but no less vicious for it.) She's either a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down, after which comes the calculation of whether she'd have an interest in a chap with twelve-hour-shift hair. Looks like another hundred scampers around the wheel when she sashays to the guy with the Bentley key fob.

Mr Nights, my drinking companion, looked kinda peeved. He'd been sipping tequila for an hour, and peevishness is a common-enough side-effect. But in this case it was the lack of women in the bar that had gotten to him.

It's a brodeo here, he said, despondent.

And he was right. Over his left and right shoulders was a herd of men, rather like beasts at a waterhole. In nature, a regular mix of sexes would naturally gather at the cool corner of the bar - which I think was the reason Mr Nights was off-balance. Absence of females felt all artificial and dysfunctional. The livestock references aren't accurate either. All showered and shaved and Alpha-ed up, the guys looked as useless as show-dogs. Bulls never looked so pouffed.

The good news is that even if one is stuck hamster-wheeling through life, it's possible to have more than one hamster wheel.



Bottoms Up, rodents!

Another Notch on my Bedpost.

Another weekend passed without scoring, another play period without a notch carved on my bedpost. At the moment I'm suffering from sweeheart deficiency disorder, for which I shall soon be obtaining treatment. It's gotta a be a syndrome of some sort; a chronic problem like this must be treatable with a really expensive drug.

And by the way, why do we surreptitiously keep score? What difference does the total number of people with whom we have conducted coitus make? If my instinct is correct there's a curve out there that looks something like the trajectory of a low-orbit rocket launch - after a certain number of partners, it's all just floating about in space.

I would like to create a large-scale experiment. Men on the hunt for pussy would split into two groups. The first group would, during the chat-up phase, say they'd had sex with only two women ever in their lives. The other half would explicitly make mention that they'd had sex with twenty women. What's your bet as to the outcome?

And what's with all that notches on bedposts carpentry b.s. anyway? It's SO two centuries ago. Surely there's an iPhone app for that now. Sheesh. I wish these metaphors would automatically update.




Bottoms Up.


Stud from here [link]

Edited for split infinitives.

Widows

A barrier exists between prospective suitors and the widow.

How does the single man approach the bereaved? Is there a magic key to unlock the heart of a priorly taken woman?

How to kill the (dead) elephant in the room?

Clearly I have no clue.



Pic from here [link]

Friday Fluffer - Foot Massage

I know of few greater pleasures a man can give to a woman than a foot massage. Memories of ex's eyes rolling back in their heads and coos of encouragement reinforce my understanding of this as a great form of foreplay.

Men know this, but few of us take the time out to make an event of it. It's my New Year Resolution: give more women foot massages.





And here is the definitive guide to the politics of massaging other men's wives' feet.









Photo from here. [link]

Women in bars.

Somehow the liquor industry convinced us that bars are the primo places to find a mate. It makes sense I guess, given the ready access to mind-altering substances and resulting convivial atmosphere. Reducing inhibition is probably the best justification for drinking - in moderation please people. Sure, sure, we like the taste, but if the alcohol wasn't present, I doubt booze would be as popular. There's a reason non-alcoholic wine and beer sales are like a flea on the butt of Mr Ethanol Elephant.

Concerned mothers the world over tell their daughters they'll never find a good man at the bar. They're referring to the legal bar I imagine, since any sensible mother would break down in floods of tears knowing her Princess was dating the likes of a John Edwards. Contrastingly, drinking-type bars are the habitue of sexy and upright paragons of the community. Like me.

But not me lately. After years of unsatisfactory searching for the future Mrs Wombat in drinking establishments all over, the obvious has arrived and whacked me over the head. We don't need bars to find women; women are everywhere. I'm fully aware of how dopey this sounds. Really, truly stupid. There's no defence I can provide (where's a lawyer when I need one?) other than to say that some behaviours from one's early years can stick beyond their usefulness.

For a young man in Australia the progression is: out with mates -> drinking -> horny -> nothing to lose -> fear of failure overcome -> approach women -> hope for successful outcome.

Experience eliminates the need for the first two parts, meaning the whole world is my oyster. Why did it take so long?

Being Single Part 1, Being Single Part 2, Being Single Part 3.