I'm Having More Fun Than You (6 page)

While it’s not my favorite technology, I am adept enough at instant messaging that others have outsourced their needs to me. Shermdog, who is most comfortable chatting up women in person, once got an IM from a chick he barely knew. Seeing the conversation going nowhere fast, he asked me to stand behind him and tell him what to type. A few hours later, he was nailing her. Seriously, I’m like an electronic Cyrano.

FRIEND REQUESTS WITH BENEFITS

I’m not one to exaggerate, but Facebook is the greatest thing to happen to single guys in the history of mankind. In just a few short years, we have been given a tool that not only displays pictures of a girl, but also pictures of her friends, her relationship status, job and education info, and months’ worth of wall posts from which invaluable data can been gleaned. We can ascertain what amounts to a full work-up on a chick before ever even meeting her. It’s just like the individual Citysearch reviews I imagined—only better.

But as with any breakthrough in the game, there are hazards. The first thing to be wary of is the photos. These are obviously the reason men come to social networking sites to begin with, and it’s also where guys and girls engage in information warfare. Women know what they’re doing—they’re standing sideways in every single picture, looking over their shoulder with shadows covering everything else. Hence it’s called Facebook instead of Bodybook. Girls cleverly obscure themselves from the neck down because they know that the only thing guys need is one arm. I just need an unobstructed view of you from shoulder to elbow and I will extrapolate your entire body type in my mind—accurate or not. But women should be careful not to look
too
good in their profile pictures. You think I can’t spot a glamour shot—otherwise known as the greatest posed picture of you ever taken? Sorry, but I’m moving on to the more extemporaneous album labeled “Wasted at Mardi Gras” instead. Ultimately, the key to a great Facebook profile is to look good without really trying—and without making me sift through five hundred pictures of your fucking sister’s baby first.

An additional complication is the fact that most Facebook pictures have more than one person in them. How disappointing is it when you’re stalking someone online and you finally find a picture that she’s tagged in, but when you roll over the photo it turns out she’s not the cute one? Very, very disappointing. Therefore, I think we should establish some rules. Ladies: posting a picture of yourself and a celebrity doesn’t make you any more attractive. Guys: posting a picture of yourself and the one hot chick you happen to know from work doesn’t make you less of a dork. Ladies: don’t caption a photo of you and your girl friends as “my beautiful babies” when they’re all busted. Guys: don’t make your profile private; what are you, a chick? Ladies: don’t list your age as 99 years old; now everyone just assumes you’re older than thirty-five—be proud to be an Internet-savvy cougar!

Relationship status is another potential trap. Sometimes, women will put In a Relationship on their Facebook profile even though they’re single, just so creepy guys won’t hit on them. However, when you don’t link to your boyfriend’s name, or have even one picture of him in any of your photo albums, we’re totally on to you. And please don’t list your relationship status as Swinger, It’s Complicated, or Married (to your best friend); just save us all the trouble and go with Single.

While technology has helped me take my game to a whole new level, and allowed single people of both sexes to communicate with and stalk each other more freely than ever before, some of the problems that have always plagued us remain. For instance, when cell phones first became popular, I’d get a million accidental calls because my first name starts with two
A
s and is often listed first in friends’ address books. Now, I get a million invitations to completely irrelevant events on Facebook—again because my first name is listed at the top and people are just clicking away indiscriminately. When I was a senior in college, my cell phone address book ran out of memory and every time I wanted to make room for a new number, I had to pick the contact I liked the least and delete him or her—kind of like cell phone
Survivor.
Then, last year, my Facebook account reached the 5,000-friend limit and now I can’t add anyone else. It’s the same issue all over again. Only now I have no idea how I’m gonna choose whom to defriend. Oh, who are we kidding? You know exactly how I’m gonna choose.

CLOSING TIME

When I’ve laid some groundwork, thwarted the HCIs, identified an eight or above on the classic scale, remembered her name, and vanquished the competition, it’s time for the close. Scoring in cities where last call is late, such as New York, Chicago, or Miami, is less about attraction and more about attrition. “Magic Hour” occurs between 2:30 and 3:30 a.m. and refers to the window of time when girls are just drunk, tired, or lonely enough to respond to guys’ advances. This is the perfect time to close because the girls who are left standing have essentially identified themselves as available for the taking. (Since bars close much earlier in LA, Magic Hour sadly does not exist here, and the entire process must be accelerated.) Regardless, the final dance has begun.

When I attempt to take a girl home from the bar against her better judgment, I need to have a retort handy for any excuse she could possibly give to not hook up with me, and just wear her down. “You have to get up really early tomorrow? No problem, I’ll set an alarm.” “You don’t have your contact lens solution? We’ll buy some on the way home. At least you’re not wearing glasses.” Sometimes a girl will attempt to dissuade me by managing expectations: “Listen, Karo, I’ll go home with you, I guess, but I’m not gonna, like, do much. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.” Ladies, don’t worry about me being disappointed. I went out looking for a nine and I’m going home with a six. That ship has sailed.

The thing is, when guys go out, we pretty much
need
to hook up. In case of a dry spell I have enough stock footage stored up to masturbate for six to ten weeks. But after that, sex is a biological requirement. When I approach that limit, I toss all my usual rules out the window and my motto becomes—to paraphrase the words of the esteemed sociologist 50 Cent—“Get Laid or Lie Tryin’.” If I’m trying to take a girl home from a bar that’s in kind of a sketchy neighborhood, but she’s worried about leaving her friend behind, I’ll continue to implore, “Come on, let’s get outta here.” And if my girl is like, “But ten dudes in biker jackets are hitting on my friend right now,” I’ll respond assuredly, “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Despite every element of my game firing on all cylinders, when I have a girl wrapped around my finger, there is usually only one thing that can prevent it from happening: her friend. Because every girl has that one friend who either lost her cell phone or can’t find the other girls or got alcohol poisoning or has no place to stay. More potential sex has been squandered due to girls’ friends than I care to quantify. Meanwhile, I’m muttering under my breath, “Fuck your friend; let’s go!” But girls are loyal; they will not leave without their friend. And this is truly unacceptable. If I think there’s even a
chance
I might be getting some ass, I take charge. “Listen up,” I’ll say. “Here’s how we’re gonna get your friend home.” And then I lay out an overly elaborate plan designed to convince my target that her friend will be just fine going home with the bartender.

And when I’ve finally convinced a chick to go home with me, I don’t take any chances—I leave
immediately.
I do not say goodbye to anyone. I’m like a phantom. Because I know that the longer my farewell lap, the greater the chance the girl is going to realize that this is a poor decision. I went to a party for a buddy of mine once and he introduced me to this really cute brunette. She wanted to go home with me, so I said, “Cool, let’s bounce.” Then she asked, “Don’t you want to say goodbye to your friend first?” “Uh, not really.” “But he’s leaving to teach English in southeast Asia. You’re not gonna see him for, like, two years.” And I just wanted to say, “Darling, the best going-away present I could possibly give him is banging you.”

SEALING THE DEAL

Once I’ve left the bar with a girl, there’s no time to breathe easy. Although I may be only minutes away from sealing the deal, I’m not in the clear yet. My new number-one priorities become getting home as quickly as possible and keeping the girl occupied. I don’t want her having any second thoughts about hooking up. If I’m in a cab with a girl and there’s a lull in the conversation, I put on a fucking show. I sing and dance and shake my keys around, hoping a shiny object will distract her while I yell at the cabbie to “
Drive
—for the love of God, drive!”

I was in a cab home with this girl once, and everything was going great, and then the cab got into a huge head-on collision. No one was injured, thankfully, but the two cars were totaled and the girl was really shaken up. She said, “Oh my God. I can’t believe that just happened. Can you take me home?” And I was like, “Of course. I mean, I thought that’s what we were doing in the first place.” And she said, “No, not like that. I mean can you help me
get
home. My head is spinning. Isn’t yours?” And I wanted to reply, “Of course, a little. But my
cock
is fine.” Instead, I said, “Yeah, I’m pretty freaked out too. I don’t think either of us should be alone.”

When I make it back to a girl’s place, though, there is one situation that is an absolute worst-case scenario: if she has a pet. Not because I’m allergic, but because I fucking hate all animals. I’m sorry, but I don’t care if it’s a dog or a cat or a bird or a gerbil—get it out of my fucking face. It’s not normal for people to have animals running around their house. It smells and it’s gross and I don’t give a shit what you named it after. And no, a cat isn’t the cleanest animal there is—it shits in a fucking box in the kitchen! Get it away from me! I hate animals. I can barely stand humans.

Going back to my place involves a different set of obstacles and strategies. For instance, on more than one occasion I’ve brought a girl back to my apartment to drink wine only to discover that I have absolutely no idea how to open the bottle. And when at long last we finally make it into my bedroom, and everything is all set, I wait for the girl to go to the bathroom, then go into her purse and shut off her cell phone. That way, later, when we’re about to have sex and she says, “I wonder if my friend got home from the bar OK,” I can just say, “Well, she never called so I’m sure everything is fine!”

There was a special time in my life when a very rare scenario occurred: I got laid early on a weekend night, like around 11 p.m., and then the girl left. When this happened, there was really only one thing I could do: shower up and head back out. I can’t tell you what an exhilarating sensation it is to kick game knowing that you’ve already scored. There’s no pressure; anything that happens is just a bonus. I felt invincible—like when you get the Starman in Mario Bros., except I didn’t start blinking. I did, however, start thinking. If I were to hook up again, that’d be two girls, in one night, at separate times; that’s unbelievable! Then I hit on every girl I saw, got shot down like Duck Hunt, and went home by myself before passing out while masturbating. Yup, I woke up in the morning with tissues stuck inside the waistband of my boxers like a Kleenex holster.