An old friend of mine, whose arrogance is unsurpassed even by the most heinous celebrity chef, regularly preaches this me. Usually over the phone as he’s sneaking out of his latest conquest’s apartment in the early hours of the morning after.
He’d say it’s not about charm, or even confidence (he’s one of those typically insecure arrogant guys. Arrogance and confidence are two very different things). He’d advise rudeness. Not as in hurling insults at the poor girl, commenting on her dreadful taste in shoes. For starters, that would just make you sound gay, wouldn’t it?
No, what he meant was to appear disinterested. He’d say to glance around the room while she’s talking to you. Never under any circumstances seem keen. In fact, goes as far as to convince yourself you don’t even like her before she’s spoken.
Now being the humanitarian I am, I always refused to believe women love being treated improperly. Still do, I suppose. Sort of. Perhaps it’s a blind faith in womankind? Or a fantastical hope for my own behalf? It’s just that I think all people should be treated with equal respect. As long as they recognise my rightful position as master of the human race.
Naturally I put it down to the specific type of dreadful girls he must be going for. The kind I wouldn’t share cyberspace with nevermind personal space. Alas, this proved not to be the case.
I’ve never approached a woman I fancied and whom I didn’t know. Apart from this one occasion. I just wanted to test the over-hyped theory. I expected either I’d do it wrong – not offensive or dismissive enough. Or I’d hit the bar perfectly and she’d be a charming young woman who now feels utterly offended and thinks I’m scum.
So I was in a pub, and this voluptuous brunette was flirting outrageously with these dopey students, getting free drinks out of them (student loans must be much larger than in my day) then giving each a very predictable brush off. This was enough to rile my senses and I must admit that using negativity as a source of ‘courage’ to approach her definitely worked. Otherwise I would never have spoken to her. Now I understand what women mean when they announce we should simply go up and talk. Quite literally that, it seems. There’s no need for humour, politeness, or, as my friend suggests, charm.
So I swan over, as if I’m looking for a fight, for christ’s sake. And lunge in with some accusation of her ‘playing’ the poor sods fawning over her. To this day I can’t recall my actual words, such was the self-disgust I felt. Priding myself on being a decent man, I’ve buried that part of the memory. What I do remember is that I was brutally offensive. There was absolutely no charm involved. No intrigue she could’ve possibly felt. Yet, she responded. A conversation was brewing. Either that or a potential fight.
Unfortunately, I had to keep reminding myself not to like her. And sustain my obnoxious manner. And the more this appeared to entice her, the more I truly began to lose any semblance of interest in her. And when she leaned in to kiss me I found myself rebuffing this attractive woman. So basically I’d finally talked my way into a stranger’s knickers and talked myself out of them before I’d even stretched the elastic. It transpires treating them mean simply makes me feel unclean.
Well, my friend’s advice definitely works, but it’s not for me. I’ll just have to continue my adopted method of hanging around suspiciously until the right girl takes pity on me and decides to engage me in conversation. And more importantly, finds my nervous stammering, as I marvel at the rarity of having been approached, particularly alluring.