Love by the Book

by Melissa Pimentel

I crossed the street and went into the liquor store for a bottle of wine and a Milky Way. As I thumbed through a copy of Vogue, I realized I’d already forgotten what Running Man looked like.

  He was a nice guy, sure, and part of me was strangely attracted to his fitness zealotry. His ass was certainly a selling point (I actually can’t think about it too much right now for fear of boiling over) but with the prospect of sex off the table, his ass was a moot point. At the end of the day, I had found him kind of boring. It wasn’t his fault, and I was sure there was a pert female ultrarunner out there waiting for him, her blond ponytail swinging in the breeze, but in the immortal words of Bob Dylan, it ain’t me, babe.

  Name: Running Man

  Age: 37

  Occupation: HerbaLife Sales Rep

  Nationality: Australian

  Description: Can’t remember concentrating so much on his face, but he does have an unbelievable body

  Method: Close Your Legs, Open Your Heart

  Result: If there’s no chance of sinking your teeth into a banana cream pie, there’s no point in going to the bakery

  I thought about what Running Man had said about marathons, about hitting that point of clarity and everything else just falling away. That’s how I felt coming to the end of this month. Don’t get me wrong: I definitely missed sex, but at the same time, there was something liberating about not having to think about it. When I was sitting across from Running Man at that cafe, I wasn’t wondering what he’d be like in bed or imagining that muscle right above the hip flexor, or wondering if I had any condoms back in the flat. I was thinking about how I was having a fairly dull time, and how I’d rather be at home with a bottle of wine, a Milky Way and a copy of Vogue.

  This is going to sound a little corny, but I’ve really enjoyed concentrating all my energy on myself this month. I feel like a saner, stronger, more self-sufficient person. So while I wouldn’t recommend abstinence full-time, I would say that there’s something to be said for clearing the palate occasionally and just focusing on you. A little abstinence sorbet, if you like. And now that my mouth was all fresh and clean, I was ready to stuff my face again. Plus, as of this morning, I can do seventeen push-ups and seven-eighths of a pull-up: not bad for a month’s work.

  Not Tonight, Mr. Right in Conclusion

  Works best on . . .

  I didn’t feel particularly more attractive to menfolk during this month, though I did end up feeling marginally more attractive to myself. And I guess to Adrian, though I don’t think he can be considered an average test subject considering how deeply, deeply subnormal he is. So maybe it works best on yourself?

  To be used by . . .

  Anyone who enjoys feats of endurance, valerian root and their own company.

  June 29

  While I’d wrapped up the dating side of this month, I still had one more thing to cross off my list before I could officially move on to the next book: Tough Mudder, of course.

  I turned up to a field in Sussex at an ungodly hour of the morning. I had two cups of coffee and a banana before I left the house, and I could feel both of them quietly curdling in my stomach as I lined up at the starting line. I was surrounded by groups of men wearing customized T-shirts heralding their local five-a-side club or their company name (almost entirely from the banking sector). I was one of the only women, and I was definitely the only woman on her own. There was so much testosterone in the air, I was worried I’d grow a beard.

  And so, when the starting pistol fired, I wasn’t feeling particularly confident.

  But three hours and twenty-eight minutes later, covered in slime and with bruises blooming across every inch of my body, I crossed the finish line. I’d had some help up the walls from some of the banking bros, and one of my few fellow ladies gave me an energy gel when I was flagging post mud-mile, but I had done it. And that feeling of accomplishment, that rush of endorphins, that enormous surge of unfettered sisters-are-doing-it-for-themselves pride was better than any sex I’d ever had.

  BOOK FOUR

  THE RULES OF THE GAME

  July 1

  I got back late from work to find Lucy starfished on the couch. She hadn’t come home at all over the weekend and had sent me several cryptic text messages about staying with a friend when I’d tried to track her down.

  “Hey, stranger! Where the hell have you been? I was worried about you last night. Wait till I tell you about Tough Mudder.”

  “Lo, I have some big news.”

  “Hang on a sec—let me get an ice pack.” One of my knees had swollen to the size of an eggplant since Saturday and I was trying to keep it under control. “Is the landlord finally going to fix the hole in the kitchen floor?” I called out to her from the kitchen. “I almost knocked myself unconscious on the countertop!”

  “No! Much more important than that.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” I muttered.

  “Lauren! This is serious!”

  “Okay! Okay! I’ll open a bottle of wine.”

  I hobbled in from the kitchen with a bottle of red, two glasses, a jumbo bag of mini eggs I’d been hoarding since Easter and a pack of frozen peas for my knee. “Shoot.”

  Lucy sat up straight, tucked an errant blond curl behind her ear and said, “I’m in love!”

  “Shit. What? Since when? With who?”

  “Since Friday! I met him at work. He sat in on one of our strategy meetings and we couldn’t stop staring at each other. I could barely make it through the quarter two derivatives.”

  Lucy’s job involved something to do with accounting that I didn’t really understand. I made a mental note to Google the word “derivative.”

  “Anyway, he pulled me aside after the meeting and asked me to have dinner with him that night. He took me to Dabbous—I have no idea how he managed to get a table at such short notice—and then for martinis at Dukes. We ended up going back to his—Lo, he lives in a penthouse off of Hyde Park!—and we spent the whole weekend in bed. I’ve only come home tonight because I’ve got that big meeting tomorrow and need to get some sleep. Oh, babe, he’s just amazing. He’s handsome and smart and clever and kind and rich . . . he’s perfect!”

  “That’s very exciting! And what’s this Mr. Perfect’s name?”

  “Tristan. Tristan Fraser-Clarke. God, even his name makes me swoon!”

  “When are you going to see him again?”

  “Tomorrow night! He’s taking me to a private viewing at some gallery on Bond Street. You should see his art collection—you would just die.”

  “An art collector, too! This guy sounds incredible.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened with excitement. “Oh, he is. He’s like a proper Prince Charming. And fit! He has silvery-gray hair, and these amazing dark-green eyes with those sort of crinkly bits at the sides—”

  “He has gray hair?”

  “Yes. He’s very distinguished.” There was a defensive edge to her voice.

  “Just how old is Prince Charming?”

  She suddenly looked coy. “Well, he’s a bit older than me. But with age comes wisdom, experience . . .”

  “A penthouse . . . Come on, spill it. How old?”

  “Fifty-seven, which is actually not that old, when you think about it. Not in the grand scheme of things. Besides, I’ve always had a thing for older men.”

  “That’s a pretty big gap, Luce. Does he have kids?”

  “No, he’s been a confirmed bachelor his whole life . . . until he met me!”

  “Well, God only knows guys our age aren’t worth their weight in retro high-tops. You might as well date up.” I still had my reservations about the age thing, but one look at Lucy’s radiantly happy face told me I’d better keep them to myself.

  “Exactly.”

  “Now, the important part: how was the sex?”

  Lucy’s eyes lost focus and glazed over. Fo
r a moment, I thought I’d lost her.

  I snapped my fingers and topped up her drink. “Hello? Anyone home? Or did he literally fuck your brains out?”

  “Sorry, sorry. Lo, the sex was incredible. We did things that I didn’t know were possible. Dirty, filthy things.”

  I lost her again for a second.

  “You really have hit the jackpot!”

  “I know. I’m telling you, he’s the one! This is it!”

  I took a sip of my wine and smiled. “I’m happy for you. I really am. Come on, let’s go have a cigarette.”

  “Okay, and then I’m off to bed. I’m shattered and my hips are killing me. I don’t think I’ll be able to sit down properly tomorrow.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Excuse me if I don’t feel too bad for you. I think my hymen has grown back at this point.”

  Cigarettes extinguished and Lucy off to dream of silver-haired foxes, I ran myself a hot bath. As I sank into the steaming water, I thought about Lucy’s news. I wanted her to be happy—of course I did!—but a tiny, mean part of me hoped that things with Tristan wouldn’t work out. Lucy was my number-one partner in crime in London, and losing her to the world of relationships would be a serious blow. Why did everyone have to pair off in the end? What about the freedom—the joy!—that came from being single? Why was everyone so keen to get into something I had been so desperate to get out of?

  I dunked my head under the water. It didn’t matter what everyone else did. I had to focus on the project. Tomorrow was the start of the new book, and it looked like it was going to be a doozy.

  July 2

  I should preface this by saying that when I went into the bookshop to purchase this month’s book, the new bookseller picked up the copy I’d found in the attic, threw it across the room and tried to force me to buy Simone de Beauvoir instead. I explained that I’d read all of her work years ago—and her complete correspondence with Sartre—and that I’d go buy my copy of The Rules of the Game from Waterstones, thankyouverymuch.

  Anyway, you’re probably familiar with the whole “pick-up artist” scene by now. There was a show on MTV about it featuring a guy who looked suspiciously like Kid Rock circa 2003 and who always wore a giant furry top hat. Apparently, this man has slept with thousands of women, a fact that makes me grieve for my gender.

  The Game is probably the best-known of all the pick-up artist books, and The Rules of the Game is the author’s thirty-day step-by-step guide to put you on the road to amateur porn stardom. Each day gives the reader a new mission with the ultimate objective being to secure a date with a woman. Like a really shitty James Bond.

  The introduction begins by painting a world filled with superhot women who are behind some sort of locked partition. There are hot women everywhere! In Maxim, on TV, in porn . . . and yet most men are not having sex with these women! Something has gone terribly wrong. But never fear, because this book is going to provide the key that unlocks unlimited hot lady-goods!

  I don’t want to unlock any lady-goods (I have enough trouble unlocking my own), and I know men are from Mars and women are from Venus and all that, but can pick-up approaches really be that different based on gender? As you know, I am but the tool of science, so I decided to find out.

  July 7

  Day six of The Game and so far I’ve taken several self-assessment tests (results: worrying) and given myself a mission statement (which mirrors the mission statement of this entire project, i.e., to have frequent sex with people of sound mental and physical health).

  I’ve also given myself a mini-makeover, as firmly encouraged by the book. This involved me approaching random guys on the street and asking them to recommend a good clothing store for women; this is one assignment that would presumably be more successful if gender roles were reversed, as I received two recommendations for Ann Summers and one for Isabel Marant. (I’m pretty sure the third fellow I asked wasn’t playing for my team.) I ended up going to Zara and buying a couple of great little shift dresses that could double up for dates and work, as well as a pair of sequined short shorts that I was definitely at least eight years too old to be wearing but couldn’t resist because they were shiny and on the sale rack.

  The book also had me call random people in the phone book and ask for movie recommendations, compliment people I saw on the street, and generally pushed me into interacting with strangers far more than I was normally comfortable with.

  I was beginning to see that the book worked on the law of averages: the more people you approach, the more likely it is that you’ll end up having sex with one of them. It also forced you into a hyper-social space: you were putting yourself out there constantly. For someone who desperately avoided small talk and would walk up six flights of stairs rather than get in the elevator with another person, it was a challenge.

  But nearly a week in, I was starting to acclimatize. Tonight was the night where I was meant to put all I’d learned into action. It was time to go to a bar.

  As Lucy had fallen down the rabbit hole of new love, stopping into the flat only to collect fresh clothes and wander dazedly around the living room grinning to herself, I recruited a very reluctant Cathryn as my wingman.

  We went to a bar on Dalston Lane that was marked only by an old pharmacy sign from the eighties. Inside, the requisite groups of hipsters congregated, admiring one another’s ironic mullets and Hypercolor T-shirts, but there were also a few groups of normal-looking thirty-something guys.

  Cathryn wasn’t used to venturing farther east than Barnsbury, and inspected her surroundings with barely concealed fascination. I imagined it was what Richard Burton must have looked like on his first trip down the Congo.

  “What do these people do all day?” she whispered, gesturing at a man wearing a bowler hat, cravat and knee-length shorts. “Do they have jobs?”

  “Something based heavily in the theoretical, I imagine. What do you want to drink?”

  We settled down at a table and I explained my mission for the evening: to approach several groups of guys and “open” with them by asking them for their expertise on a subject or situation I was curious about. As there were huge, yawning gaps in my general knowledge, I was spoiled for choice in terms of topics.

  I picked out a group of guys, finished off my vodka tonic and told Cathryn to hang tight: I was going in.

  I sauntered over to their table, trying my best to look nonchalant. This was a key element of the approach: to make it look as though the approach was an afterthought rather than a specific intention. The guys appeared to be in the middle of an in-depth discussion about the Bundesliga, but I forged on regardless.

  I launched straight into my opener. “Hey, you guys look like experts. Can you help settle a bet between my friend and me?” I gestured over toward Cathryn, who did an embarrassed little wave.

  The three of them looked up at me in confusion, but after a few seconds a scruffy blond wearing a Stone Roses T-shirt smiled and said, “Sure, we’ll give it a try.”

  “Great,” I said. “How were the pyramids built? I think it was through a pulley system, but my friend over there swears by the lever and fulcrum.”

  Silence fell on the table for several beats, until the stocky guy at the end of the table spoke. “Actually, I don’t think either were used. Slaves just pulled everything by hand.”

  The blond man piped up. “Come on, there’s no way people could have pulled those blocks by hand! How could they stack them on top of each other? They would have to have used pulleys.”

  “I think you’re underestimating how many slaves there were in Egypt,” the stocky one said.

  “Can you even define those people as slaves, though?” the bearded man chipped in from the corner. “At that point, Egypt didn’t have a currency system, so there was no way to compensate the workers monetarily.”

  “Yes, you would most certainly call it slavery. Haven’t you read the Old Testament
? Moses didn’t lead them through the desert for the hell of it.” The stocky man looked angry.

  The bearded man folded his arms in front of his chest. “Here we go again.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but that sort of revisionist history is utter nonsense.”

  The bearded one and the stocky one seethed at each other across the table.

  “Sooooo,” I said, “you guys are thinking pulleys?”

  The two men ignored me while the blond one looked up with a weary smile. “Sorry, it doesn’t look like we’re much use. You should probably just Google it.”

  “Yeah, good idea. Thanks anyway!” I said brightly as I made my way back to the table. When I sat down, I saw that the blond had gone out for a cigarette and the stocky one and the Beard were locked in an intense discussion.

  “How did it go?” Cathryn asked, looking up from her book.

  “Not really as I’d planned. I thought asking about ancient building techniques was noncontroversial, but apparently not.”

  “You asked them about ancient building techniques? What on earth were you thinking?”

  “The book said I could open with any topic I was curious about, and I’ve always been curious about how the pyramids were built.”

  “Oh, Lauren,” Cathryn muttered.

  “Well, it did spark off a lively debate. Just not one that included me.”

  “Perhaps you should try something more general next time?”

  “You’re right. Okay, round two.” I spied a group of men in their midthirties from across the room, all wearing expensive-looking cardigans and drinking expensive-looking bottles of wine, and started to get up from my seat.

  Cathryn rolled her eyes. “You know, this isn’t exactly a scream for me, reading my book alone in the middle of this strange bar.”

  “I know, I’m sorry and I promise I’ll buy you dinner after this. But I’ve got to do my homework first.”