Arguably, I’m kinda new to the whole dating world. I’ve had several serious relationships, but never a casual fling. Not even one. I’m the guy who waits until he finds a rare and exquisite beauty, then turns up the charm, so she’s hopeless to resist. And they always are. I think well on my feet, and generally talk my way out of trouble reasonably well, in those cases where I cross the line. I also have an extra helping of “I don’t give a fuck” when it comes to interacting with attractive women. This all conspires to promote an atmosphere of suave sophistication, which is great because when I’m not turning on the charm, I am typically perceived by most people in the world as “inconsequential.” In the majority of cases, where I want to be left alone and not be noticed, this is exactly what I want. However, when it comes to attracting the hottest woman at the club, that approach leaves a lot on the table. Actually, it leaves everything on the table. In fact, it doesn’t even get me in the front door.
I normally think of myself as a smart, sensual, and complex person. I’ve had a lot of great sex with a few really amazing women, and for that I am forever grateful.
Ok, that’s bullshit. Not the factual part. I do hold myself in high esteem and I have enjoyed hot sex with some incredible women. That’s all true. The bullshit lies in the presentation, not in the sales pitch way, but in the “this guy is full of himself” way, which is really only half true. As you read that short paragraph, you probably felt yourself thinking “why the fuck am I reading this boastful and simultaneously pseudo-humble account of this guy’s self-important exploits?” The reason you thought that was the last few words. There’s a part of the scenario that is hidden in plain sight. While I appreciate the experience, I am not grateful. Grateful is something I would feel if I needed a jump start in an Ikea parking lot with a car full of not-yet-assembled furniture, and someone offered me one of those portable battery things. Grateful is not what I feel for having successfully seduced a gorgeous fit blonde in a bar. That feeling is power, not gratitude. Really, that paragraph should have looked more like this:
I’m a hustler, baby. Women can not resist the temptation to fuck me, and once they try it once, they always come back for more and always leave satisfied.
See? That’s much different, isn’t it? It carries the same sense of confidence, but presented in a different way. It turns the typical paradigm on its head. Instead of man chasing woman, it’s woman chasing man. It’s the difference between hoping I’ll get to 2nd base and knowing I’m going to use all the condoms I brought. It’s all in the perception of both parties.
Right now, I’m dating a really fantastic woman who is changing my perception of myself in this context. She has said many times over the last six weeks that I am like Jekyll and Hyde – a strong, dominant lover in the bedroom, and a mild-mannered nerdy geek otherwise. This perspective is fascinating to me. I have always thought of myself as a confident guy who knows how to treat a lady, and also the guy who can diagnose that strange whirring noise your dishwasher is making. I take for granted my sexual prowess and my intellect equally. It never occurred to me until recently, though, that those traits are typically not present in one person, thus making me rather uncommon. To put it more succinctly, it never dawned on me that this makes me the rare and exquisite beauty, something to be coveted by lustful women who get a taste and can’t resist the urge for more.
I would never have imagined that I could turn around from a highly abusive relationship and find myself in a situation where my partner has no doubt (and has said as much) that I could easily charm any woman I wanted. I’ve had conversations with friends many times about how to stop being a doormat for my partner to walk all over. Apparently, I took that advice to heart because the feedback I’m getting lately is really positive, and I find myself thinking about relationships in a totally different light. I no longer find myself hoping a pretty girl will laugh at my jokes. Instead, I tell them anyway, knowing the pretty girl will likely be offended by them, but not caring because they’re jokes I like to tell and it doesn’t matter if the pretty girl laughs or not. I’m not here to amuse her. She’s here to amuse me, and if she’s boring, there are a thousand others just like her who do appreciate my jokes.
That’s the way it has to be, at least on some level, in my mind. I turn the world upside-down, shift the balance of power, and simply assert, through sheer act of will, that I am fucking fantastic, and suddenly it’s raining pussy and I can’t find enough buckets. Does that make me an asshole? Yes, and I’m ok with that. It’s par for the course. Do I apologize for it? Absolutely not. It’s a game, and I aim to win, or at least have fun in the process.
In the end, it’s simply a matter of conveying a sense of confidence. My lady friend said it so perfectly. I could never hope to express it any better, so I will simply paraphrase her:
“All women want to be fucked, so unless they are completely disgusted by you, they will probably sleep with you if you make an effort. Worst case, they leave unsatisfied. Best case, you rock their world. Nobody wins if you don’t try.”