by Ali Adler
But also keep in mind that it could backfire. You may have met your forever match, and now you will be stuck with a lifetime of ladling thin stew for the homeless. So, if you intend to proceed with this relationship as anything more than just the physical, search for something about yourself that’s emotionally revelatory. Bowl if you must, but know that it requires women to lift heavy things, type numbers, and wear used shoes. Your chances of getting it in will go way down.
Date Three Is for Fucking
Historically, date three is for fucking. Set up some kind of cursory activity before you get to the real reason for the date. Caution: don’t take her for Indian or Thai food, or anything too gastronomically complicated. Spice produces gas. Gas produces inhibition, shame, and fear. The odds of fucking exponentially decrease if she is experiencing curry bloat. (This may not apply if she is actually Indian. Her system may be slightly more inured.) Just try to keep it simple on the first potential fuck date. If you have already fucked on dates one and/or two, congratulations and skip this section.
But if you haven’t . . . no spicy. Change the sheets. Empty the trash. I know that may not sound important, but the contents of the wastebasket in your bathroom are a literal evidence locker; a catch-all, a clue giver of what’s occurred in your home recently. Used golden waxed Q-Tips? Blech. Blood? Oh no! Used condoms? All way too much information. She will go to your bathroom and she will snoop, I promise. She won’t poke around long enough for you to think she may be doing a number two in there, but she will scan and memorize.
If anything is too embarrassing, be aware of it enough to hide it. Think a couple steps in advance, because she does. Look at your bathroom, your bedroom, the contents of your fridge with her eyes. What does your Goober Grape Smucker’s PB & J say about you as an adult man? What about your Rite Aid–purchased clamp light? What does your bedside reading material say? Is there any?
Look, if you want to increase your fuck chances, load up on your assets. The things you can control. Be the man you want her to think you are. Buy nice thread-count sheets. Clean the floors of shed hair or recently deceased spermatozoa. Maybe even add a chic costly candle with a scent that’s not too overpowering. Something in the woodsy family. It shows you care about yourself enough to spend a little cash on the olfactory components of your life. Don’t burn it way down, as she will think you’re fucking a lot of girls. Don’t do its white-wicked virgin lighting in front of her, either. It will be as if you bought it for the occasion.
I know you don’t notice all these clues, but, as I mentioned before, she does. All of her friends know that she is out with you. They are waiting for a written report. Texts will come in soon. “How was it?” “Where r u?” “Omigod, are you still with him?” “Are you fucking right now?!” No matter what happens, she will go back to her friends and give a briefing. So make sure there is something extraordinary to report: “He has a monster cock!” Or even, “He had fresh grapes!”
As I’ve mentioned, everything matters; everything is calibrated, gauged, and analyzed. If you use an exclamation point or ellipses in a text, she will show this to a jury of her friends to ask what your intention was. “Why did he type these three dots . . .?” They will come up with a verdict, even if your intention was nothing. (Of course, it’s nothing! Maybe you just had an especially good fart when you typed in those magical ellipses.) But that doesn’t matter. She will already be treating you as if you have whatever ellipses disease her friends have diagnosed you with.
Women Like a Little Throw-down
Yes, yes, sure, always ask her what she likes to eat at a restaurant. Chat about the menu together: “What looks good to you . . .?” But then, when the server approaches, order for the table. (“Wait, Ali. Really? Don’t women think this is presumptuous, antiquated . . . sexist?” Of course it is. But if you have a general sense of what she likes, then this action imitates what you will do in the bedroom later.)
So pull out her chair for her, but also know her well enough to order for her. Remember what she likes to drink. Don’t even bother to ask; just do it. I will drink something with crème de menthe in it just because someone made an effort to take care of me and intuit my order. We all want to feel like there’s a guiding and protective hand on the small of our backs. If you can help a woman feel this way, do it, because it is your surest road to fucking. Women like to have a little throw-down, a little take-charge-type bossiness. This makes her feel taken care of, and lets her know you are the man.
She likes it when you’re the man, because it allows her to feel like a woman. This is most especially true if she is someone who is bossy in life and work. She likes to feel out of control a little at the table, and she especially likes this if it’s a foreshadowing of the bedroom. Generally speaking, the bedroom is where she likes to hand over the reins. She will be jostled and jarred by your confident move (and kind of impressed: “Oooh, he’s that guy”). Men that mince around, or think they’re being sensitive when they tell her to “Get what you want,” will lose out. (Or the worst: “Go ahead and order for both of us.”)
You think you’re being respectful by letting her decide. But this just tells women that you don’t know what you want in Thai food, or in life. It’s a window into the bedroom; a snapshot of how you will be. It says that you are an abdicator. You will be tentative and ignorant in bed, and now she knows what to expect there. It’s a goddamn microcosm. But if you come in with your dinner order, swashbuckler style, even if it’s all wrong, she will at least appreciate that you gave her a little throw-down. Having someone order for us tells us you know what you’re doing.
You are steering the ship, and that lets a woman relax. She can do other things, like see if you smell good. If you help her in removing all of her control mechanisms, she can occupy herself with doing other things like thinking about kissing you. Your job in the prefucking period is basically to remove any of her doubts. She is skeptical of you, yet she is here with you—so she definitely wants to be proven wrong.
Some of this is her own insecurity: “Why is a seemingly normal person into me?” “He likes me enough to buy me food and make time for me. Doesn’t he see that I’m a fraud and a mess?” “How can he be normal and single?” “Is he a player?” “Is this an act?” Everything is a sign during these early times, so we make neurotic general assessments. One too many drinks means he’s an alcoholic. Being impatient in traffic means he will hit your future children. All we have to go on are these signals, so rein your shit in and be cool.
Okay, when ordering for the girl, a couple of obvious things. Don’t order a dish that expressly lists garlic as an ingredient, or your breath will reek. If there are trace amounts of garlic in your food, use a mint. Seriously. We remember the song playing, the potpourri scent in the restaurant bathroom, the pants you selected; and when you kiss us, if you taste like a meal we didn’t actually eat firsthand, we will note this forever. It will be far bigger than you ever intended. It will become part of the legend: “When Daddy kissed me for the first time, he’d just had a giant bowl of garlicky bouillabaisse.” Or part of the lore: “Ugh, when that asshole kissed me, his mouth stank like a Sicilian’s garbage pail.” “Why would he order garlic?” “Didn’t he want to kiss me? And if he did want to kiss me and he still ordered like that, it means he didn’t think about my feelings at all. His needs are more important than mine, which will totally be true in a relationship with him, too—so fuck him! I’m not texting him back at all! In fact, I’m deleting his number.” This shit really happens, I’m telling you, so the momentary bliss of buttery, crusty garlic bread maybe isn’t worth the trade-off of a lifetime together.
Please. This is so important: Don’t talk too much about your ex or exes. Be vague about your dating history. Promise yourself not to mention a girl’s name unless your date asks very specifically about your recent dating history. Even then, keep it to fewer than fifteen (positive) words. Even if your ex gave a hand job to your best friend with the finger that wears the very
expensive ring you bought for her. I know it’s the hardest thing in the world, but only say kind things. Just lie! “She was a great girl. (She is a whore.) Didn’t work out. (She is a liar.) We ultimately weren’t right for each other. (Human Papilloma Virus.) And then, “I just want to talk about you tonight. Tell me about your favorite things to do . . .”
Just know that when she asks about your ex-history, she is not asking about your past; not really. She’s asking about her (own) future. Will you trash her if it doesn’t work out with you two? Will you obsess about her on a date with someone else? She wants to know that you are capable of having a relationship of some kind, so she doesn’t need to teach you all the relationship primer tricks that I will cover in the next chapter. Look, I know you just want to get to the fucking, but you’ll never get to do it if you don’t settle down and listen up to all this other shit.
Chapter 3
How to Pick the Perfect Peach
“Nothing could be better than being here right now with you, except, possibly, being right over there now with her.”
There isn’t one way to catch a fish, but if you keep your line loose, whatever way the fish jumps and bends, you can eventually catch one. You must learn how, or you will go hungry. And finding women to fuck is like fishing. We women are mercurial motherfuckers, but it’s not our fault. Women instinctively bob and weave. They are naysayers by nature, and they’re difficult to read: Will she bite? Will she sneakily steal bait and swim quickly in the other direction? In this chapter, I’m going to show you how to make sure the vagina you’re fishing for is the one that you really want to bite your hook.
There are all kinds of different fish in the sea, as your boring aunt used to say before her embolism. And you need to be able to distinguish what type of carp or cod or piranha you’re trying so hard to reel in. Be aware and beware of the quiet ones; they’re thinking things way too loudly inside. Beware of the noisy or bossy ones, too; they’re often covering a tender or too-sensitive heart. Beware of the too-skinny ones because they’re not emotionally fortified either; the only things they eat are feelings of self-doubt and insecurity. And beware of the overly large; they’re hiding shit like deep-fried emotions.
Diagnose What She Is Lacking
Women are all different, there is no hard and fast rule for seducing any specific one, but they all tend to telegraph what it is they need you to focus on. She is giving you all the clues the first time you see her. Just pay attention to her style choices and the things she says out loud. If you come across someone who is driven by appearances, spend time complimenting her. She’s invested a lot of time and money on this for a reason; she wants her physical beauty acknowledged. But don’t get suckered in by the superficial, just because she is. Go for the more subtle compliment. Get to the heart of the disease, not the cosmetic symptom. Like, if she’s wearing heels, instead of just talking about her sexy red-bottomed shoes, compliment the attribute she’s been compensating for with them. “You walk with such confidence. It’s hot.” She didn’t even know she needed to hear this. Now you’re a mind reader, and have added a sexual charge to your interaction. Mazel tov.
If she is a braggy-about-her-accomplishments type, this means that she hasn’t been acknowledged by someone she respected. Go out of your way to be impressed with the thing she’s leaving off the list. “How did you manage to earn a bronze medal in competitive swimming while still staying so close to your little brother? I’ll bet he’s grateful to have a role model like you.”
Women who have a lot of friends are uncomfortable being alone, and need a jury to poll about their daily problems. Try to be available for time-consuming listening, and become an ersatz therapist. Go back and reread chapter 1.
Women who went to fancy colleges succeeded very early on in their lives. It wasn’t accidental: they worked very hard; they are smart and test well. They still may like to boast about what they got on their SATs or replay tedious college anecdotes, long after graduation. But this is their backstory; these women studied and prepared while their less-impressive-college-bound peers were getting finger-fucked at the theater by butter-flavored digits. In order to stop her loop of nonhilarious collegiate reminiscences, replace her memories with something that is actually happening today. Show her the things she missed out on. Offer up some time-wasting college-type fun. Take her indoor sky-diving or, if she’s up for it, shove a Twizzler inside her at the movies.
It’s so simple; you must provide the antithesis to who she is, to promote her balance. Read her well enough to diagnose what she’s lacking.
Let’s say you’re in a club and trying to get a woman’s attention, but she’s constantly looking around or focused on her phone. Try to get her to engage with you. If she won’t, it means she’s probably not available to you. Risk saying something potentially idiotic and vulnerable here. “Are you looking for someone who isn’t me?” If she laughs, or opens up, you have a shot. If she avoids or confirms that it is not you, move on.
Don’t set your sights on someone who is going to reject you. Even if you move forward to the next level, she will ultimately reject you. Don’t want this for yourself just because your mom worked too much or your dad was absent. You should want someone who is available to you. Want someone whom you could love, and who could love you. Even if that doesn’t happen tonight, and you just end up buying this girl and all her greedy friends too many drinks.
I asked a bunch of single guys to pick a few words to describe what they were looking for in a potential future lifetime partner. Here is a random sampling of their responses:
• Fun.
• Cute.
• Long hair!
• Hot.
• Not a slut.
• Trustworthy. (Sort of like not-a-slut.)
• Content. (This is about him, not her.)
• Good companion. (Again, about him. Not her.)
• Agreeable. (Implies that she agrees with him, so not really about her.)
• Likes my friends. (Call this a mirror; it reflects him.)
• Marriage material. (Nebulous at best.)
• Regular sex.
• Thinks I’m funny. (Alert: anyone who says this, is not.)
• Blond. (A super-purchasable goal.)
• Amazing cleavage. (This means fake boobs, or cleavage from real-life big boobs. You may not yet appreciate the smaller ones until later on in life. You may not understand the literal gravity of what you’re asking for with big boobs. The large, natural breasts of a twenty-year-old are undoubtedly fantastic, but later on, and especially after kids, they are heavy, south-pointing sacks of sand. It’s pay now, or pay later.)
• Good body.
• Thin. (Not necessarily the same as “good body,” by the way.)
• Pretty face.
• Thin, pretty face.
Well, you get it.
Of the women I surveyed, sure, a lot of them said hot or handsome or sexy, but ALL of them said smart, funny, gets me. No one said ugly. No one said dumb. No one said smelly or gassy or quick to hit. So I guess that broke down pretty much the same across the gender lines. Now, blond is great for a night. Even twelve. A good physique is helpful, for sure. But does that seem like enough? Do men realize that eventually these qualities fall apart over a lifetime? Big picture: these thin, pretty characteristics may not hold up. “Believe me, I’ve tried. There are just no good girls out there.” I hear this all the time from guys. For whatever reason, he is usually Irish, and he insists that his penis is the exception to that stereotype about Irish men’s penises. In every pile of married men I work or hang out with, there’s always one lone holdout. A guy who, despite his true age, is perennially twenty-two in his thinking and actions. He judges his drone-ish married peers (those guys who got married and had kids in their twenties, thus following the Habitrail factory of life), while they live vicariously through him. They imagine his penis as their own (in the least gay way possible) as it thrusts around like a dog under a table looki
ng for scraps, taking the internal temperature of the local vaginas. But every time this guy shares a new sexual adventure, he’s always surprised that his choices aren’t working out. Does he not get that he’s the reoccurring character in all of his stories? His inability to recognize the right type of woman is the reason his stories don’t wind up with a happily ever after.
My parents are divorced. My dad is happily remarried to the greatest woman in the world. I asked my dad, many years ago, when he was still married to my cheating mother, what qualities he was looking for in a wife before marrying my mom. (They got engaged on date number four—family lore. A Wednesday first date, Thursday date, Friday date, Saturday engaged. Technically, the marriage lasted twenty-two years.) Dad pulled a weathered-looking scrap of paper out of his wallet. Bet he’d looked at it a lot, blinking back just how wrong he’d been. Here’s what it said.
My Wife in no special order:
1.Has a great personality.
2.Is physically attractive.
3.Is into me and loves me.
4.Is Jewish. (His family was killed in the war, so I get this. Propagate!)
5.Is intelligent. (Good for him!)
6.Is good in bed. (Blech!)
7.Wants children (Hey! That’s meeee!)
It’s a good thing he didn’t mention a sense of humor, because my mom’s is about as plentiful as water in California. He said that ten items on a list is very good, but no one person ever really gets more than seven, and my mom had seven.