Okay my friends and neighbors, the print edition of my next book, Well-Behaved Monsters, is now available for preorder! The rest of the world can only get their copy beginning April 9. But as an exclusive to my loyal readers of this newsletter, those of you placing your order now will not only receive this handsome and extremely engaging paperback (if I do say so myself), but also ebook versions of 7 previous titles, free of charge.
Just to give you a taste of my brand-new novel, I’m going to post a little preview here. Let it be said that this material is not for everyone. I know some people are going to hit “unsubscribe” within moments of reading the first few lines – and that’s totally fine! With all due respect, anybody offended by this snippet is clearly not a member of my tribe, so we might as well get that out of the way and over with. But for those of you who already dig my writing…I am overjoyed with how this one turned out, and believe that you are going to love it.
So cue up the dance floor drum beat, as we peel open the cover for a peek…
Smacking unknown chicks on the ass is maybe not as common as it once was. But herein lies the dilemma for those of us trudging through this current nightlife hinterland, a route which is largely improvisational. The public and especially online fervor has reached a fever pitch concerning the ways in which we allegedly should and should not behave. Meanwhile, what actually works is often something completely different. What people might say in polite society sharply diverges from what they are in fact responding to, if not impressed by, and therefore how is a young single fellow to proceed?
Do you keep your head down and your toes on the straight and narrow path, walking this fine line of polite respectability, in hopes of landing some really sweet and innocent lass who appreciates these well-mannered points? Even if likely a total mismatch for you and, if sticking around long enough to unearth the truth, probably not all that interested in this politically correct politeness routine to begin with? Or do you take your lumps, sticking to what you know is a proven viable tactic, even if it means 99.9% of this frothing chorus will publicly roll their eyes, click their tongues in horror, and give lip service to the notion that you are a reprehensible caveman? Especially if you don’t believe there is anything wrong with this behavior and some of the most vocal “opponents” have a track record of eating up this purported throwback crudeness of an earlier era?
Well, my take on this situation is this: it doesn’t matter how fashionable a point of view has become or how much steam it has gained with millions of online experts agreeing we should not carry ourselves as such. Who is to tell us we are not experiencing what we are experiencing, out here in the mortar shelled foxholes of the real world? What works is what works. If a consenting adult of (legally) sound mind and body does not object, and we are committing no crime otherwise, then the sideline boobirds can politely take their respectability trip elsewhere. It is completely irrelevant. And it seems that most of my inner circle friends, if not already of the same mindset, are slowly coming around to this point.
We don’t yet know it, but much of the groundwork for the coming months is laid out here, this very night. Dylan has this plan for us guys to meet up with some of his coworkers for dinner, after which we – and almost certainly not the coworkers – will attack the nightclub scene. This is the tricky part about life in your late 20s, as we are, in that it’s as though you are still all but required to have your feet planted firmly in two separate camps. The older crowd, a la Dylan’s work colleagues, meet for dinner and a couple of drinks, then head home; our younger friends, meanwhile, really don’t get moving until 10 or 11pm.
Those of us in our age bracket must somehow pull off both. Our standard solution is to cram a nap in between the two, if at all possible. But this is a tightly plotted Friday excursion, one which has already begun. Hence, there will be no naps tonight.
The venue chosen for this dinner outing is somewhere on the north side, a major thoroughfare, one of these trendy national sports bar chains with approximately 75 mounted TVs and a mostly cheap but surprisingly huge menu. Of course, whether they should serve most of these items is another question entirely, one which occupies a not insignificant portion of our conversations, as we arrive on the scene. Though Dylan’s coworkers seemingly came here straight from work, he and the rest of our crew have staggered in – literally, in Joe’s case – at odd intervals since then, pushing through the murky, uncharted land between happy hour and clubbing where we might otherwise just have settled into that light doze on the couch.
As I arrive, somewhere in the middle of my own pack, I observe that Dylan’s fellow state employees are sprawling at leisure around a spacious booth, near the corner, shaped like a suitcase handle. There’s seven of them there, two or three of which smile and gesture at me in passing, either in vague recognition or politeness, as I return the same. Briskly continuing to the next table over, a smaller, corner one, where only Dylan, Pete and Aaron have thus far assembled. Squeezing in with them, I’m already wondering how this is possibly going to work, considering it’s mighty tight and we’re expecting a couple more still. But, this restaurant is packed, with nary a spare top in sight, and a smattering of chumps waiting in the lobby, meaning we are likely stuck here for the next little while.
Aaron and Dylan are already pounding cocktails, which might not portend a lengthy outing tonight. Pete sips his high end British beer in silence, offering me a slight what’s up nod as I slide in beside him. The other two have a better view of the door, and their attention correspondingly fixates there, at the small but ever increasing squadron of guests gathering in wait for a table. Namely, this one striking blonde in nurse scrubs, short and sunny, thin limbed, her hair a radiant golden bob.
“What’s the play there?” Dylan wonders, “just walk right up and offer to buy her a drink?”
“Never buy a girl drinks,” Aaron cautions, shooting that notion down with a shake of the head, “these girls have gotten so good at playing guys for free drinks, at some point I just said fuck it, I’m not buying them drinks. And in a way, I think it makes you look cooler for not buying them drinks.”
If it sounds as though Dylan’s asking Aaron for advice, there’s probably some truth to this. Like Pete Ravage, and the other two comrades who have yet to arrive, Dylan Parsons is the same rough age as me. We’ve all hung out together for eons, and nearly constantly, as one semi-interchangeable mob eternally on the prowl for girls, with essentially the same skill levels and results.
But Aaron doesn’t fit any of these parameters. He’s a much more recent acquaintance, of only a couple years’ standing, is smoother than we and also comes around a whole lot less. He has a stylishly groomed crew cut, dresses well, and to almost everything said, offers a carefully guarded grin, a calm, sensible, but often unexpected response. He does well with the ladies, yes. I am hoping to glean a pointer or two from him, during this somewhat rare outing, and it seems Dylan is of the same mind. At the lowest reaches of this spectrum, Pete, apart from offering the occasional sarcastic broadside, his bunched eyebrows betray continual befuddlement regarding, or sharp disdain for, our often lame improv efforts towards these same ladies. But Dylan and I are precisely in the middle, and locked in right now with everything Aaron’s saying.
When a bubbly but only average looking waitress approaches our table, asking what I would like, focal points swerve unexpectedly closer to home, as I endure snickers and wisecracks for ordering a water and a milkshake. I have my reasons, though, and caution these guys that unless sticking to something exceptionally basic, they will probably regret trifling with the food here. As for the water, I’m driving, and we have a long night ahead. It’s only when the waitress darts away that we observe, like a staged movie scene, that new arrival Phil Laswell is neatly tucked behind her, obscured by her while fast approaching our table.
“What is this, a fag booth?” Phil jokes, with a lopsided smile, citing the cramped seating arrangement, though with no other choice but to squeeze in beside me now. He has his theory, but to me it seems more like something designed for a traveling troupe of short people, or a busload of small children. Not five and soon six ordinary sized men.
In his standard uniform of black jeans, black tee shirt, and straggly black hair, offset only by a gleaming silver wallet chain, Phil neatly tips the scales now in favor of the more raggedly attired. While Pete and Aaron are unfailingly throwing on their best, Dylan and I almost never bother. Well, I go through phases of extending a token effort in this direction, and debating whether it makes any difference at all, but tonight is not one of those occasions. Only when an already half-drunk, wobbling Joe arrives – sauced up, sure, but having taken the time for such odious chores as showering, shaving, throwing on some nice clothes and cologne – does our circle complete and evenly shade itself into neat, yin and yang halves.
“Got…nuthuggers…on…,” Joe gasps, though he can’t even fully slide in beside Aaron, with this idiotic arrangement, “can…barely…breathe…”
“Those went out of style ten years ago,” I observe.
“Never were in style,” Pete corrects.
Would a little of Aaron’s magic rub off on us this evening? Spurred into action by this ridiculous setup as anything else – also by Joe pleading with our comparatively plainer waitress for a spare chair, so that he might sit on the postage stamp sized corner nub instead – Aaron now rises to enact his latest battle plan. This is shortly followed by Dylan shoving his plate of food away, barely touched.
“Ugh. This is fucking terrible!” he announces, grimacing.
“I’m too hungry to care,” a re-seated Joe says, not necessarily disagreeing, though enjoying the extra space, having fully recovered from his near-death nuthugger experience, as he scarfs down one of those questionable southwestern concoctions.
Shortly hereafter, Dylan is the next to exit, finally realizing what any of us should have long ago, that the next table over, comprised of his older coworkers, possesses more spare room than ours. Distracted by these developments, it’s only after he leaves that I remember to check in on Aaron’s progress. I glance over my shoulder to note he’s already bellied up to the bar, has wedged himself in, standing, to the left of where that short blonde and a female friend of hers have seated themselves in the name of a few happy hour drinks.
He’s holding his own fresh Mudslide looking cocktail, which was presumably the excuse he used for squeezing in there. Judging only from body language, I would say he’s doing okay over there, which are some fantastic returns in short order. Sure, at over six feet tall, and displaying all proper grooming credentials, he’s bound for some success, but none of it works as well if you’re slouched in some distant corner. Whatever your game, you’re almost always forced to get out and mix it up, you’ve got to perpetuate something.
His move is therefore obvious, yet brilliant, even though I feel like hitting on random chicks in bars and restaurants has proven, for the most part, a tremendous waste of time. It seems to work precisely just often enough to keep you out here, forever attempting another similar score. But that’s just it: the whole enterprise is a tremendous waste of time, until it isn’t. Sitting here like an even bigger moron has a far worse success rate, however, as close to zero as one can get, the smallest non-zero number man can possibly conceive.
And so as I openly question whether to join him over there, Pete and Phil scoff at this notion, assure me he’s not going to get anywhere with those ladies. And the thing is, the skeptics have a huge house advantage in situations like this, were anyone foolish enough to place bets. Yet this has only emboldened me further. At least Joe isn’t saying anything, which is probably mostly attributable to his epic inhalation of the Zesty Southwestern Mixed Grill, or whatever the hell it’s called. But he’s also the only one among us who currently has a girlfriend, and is otherwise typically more in the half-full classroom regarding concepts like these.
Is it lame to jump in and semi-hijack that conversation, across the way, after Aaron has already done all the dirty work? Or is it not better for him to have a wingman, to balance out the ratio? For some reason, glancing down and confronting this sea of half empty plates – and my milkshake – moves me off the fence, as I am the next to bail on these cramped confines.
After performing some quick, seat of pants calculus, en route, I can see that there’s no way I can shoehorn in over by Aaron, even if wise from an icebreaking standpoint. However, sidling up to the far right, beside the other girl, or in between the other two, will probably misfire. Instead I decide on the quick flyby, as though possibly just on my way to the restroom, and only pausing midstride to say hello. Breezily inserting myself into Aaron and the blonde’s conversation without so much as an introduction.
“Is this a private conversation?” I blurt out, when I’ve only just reached his right shoulder, for he is turned with his back to me.
Spinning around, Aaron laughs and then merrily declares, as though this were the most surprising yet marvelous development imaginable, “Sid Mason! A ha! Sweet! Not at all, kind sir! Would you care to join us?” whilst clapping me heartily on the back. As for the blonde, still seated, she glances over with a friendly yet curious smile, and I’m encouraged to note that the frizzy haired brunette beside her does as well.
“Perhaps, my dear chap, perhaps indeed!” I laugh in return, although if getting technical, nobody has yet said anything even remotely funny. “But…actually I was just on my way to the men’s room.”
And I continue in that direction, considering that, in another of these spontaneous adjustments, that doing so would seem cooler, maybe, for what that’s worth, a little less eager. But then also that I kind of do need to take a leak, and that furthermore doing so now would forestall that event in the future. Only upon returning a few minutes later do I fully insert myself into their discussion, however briefly, before then popping over to a conveniently semi-vacated slot to the right of the frizzy haired brunette, under the semi-authentic rubric of ordering a drink, before striking up my own discussion with her.
He’s already done the heavy lifting, one might argue, yet you still need to hold your own in this spot. A good showing could even boost his chances as well, after all. You can’t just stand there and you definitely can’t come across as some maladapted weirdo. But there is a pronounced reason why most of this cold contact pickup business feels a little cheesy: most of it is.
Things are going to prove much more difficult if you’re worried about said cheese factor, however. You just have to block these thoughts out. And this doesn’t even entail considerations about the crushing sensation of failure, rather the cheesiness of the pursuit itself, in the moment. Yet we’ve all watched guys in action before and shook our heads, marveling, “I can’t believe this crap works for him!” And maybe it doesn’t work for him, ever, most likely did not work for him in that specific instance. If you were to shadow the smoothest character you’ve ever known, though, observing them all day, much of what they’re doing would come off as cheesy too. Especially if attempting to adapt these moves ourselves.
Here it’s mostly just a matter of falling into formation, adopting a similar keel and vibe to that already in place. I would love to report upon some extremely witty banter dispensed here, that I really crush it out of the park delivering tremendous top shelf conversational volleys. And I do okay, it’s not a total debacle, a status further redeemed when Aaron, despite investing even more time, really doesn’t get anywhere with the blonde in the nurse scrubs, either. Still, though believing I can hang in these spots in normal enough fashion, nobody would argue that thinking and behaving like everybody else is exactly my forte. All points inevitably leading to the lone significant development, or at least an eyebrow raising one, which occurs as both women have stood up, having announced their intentions to soon leave.
This would occur when the frizzy haired brunette holds one index finger aloft and tells her friend that she needs to hit the ladies’ room herself before they disembark. And then as she turns around to stride in that direction, I reach out and…apply my palm to her posterior, with a smooth, swift popping notion, most commonly referred to as a smack.
The blonde’s mouth drops about halfway to the floor, as Aaron stands beside her nervously chuckling. This despite, if I am able to interpret anything in this microsecond, his unspoken approval of this move, impressed yet not foolhardy enough to declare so – and at any rate curious to see how it pans out. As I am too, truthfully, though possessing some inkling, which is why I did it in the first place. The brunette rotates her head and the top half of her torso in my direction, eyebrows raised, but smiling, yes, merrily smiling, as she then launches into a full bodied laugh as well. A sentiment soon shared by the other three of us.
“You got it!” I tell her, tilting my own left index finger in her direction, in the tone of voice I humor myself thinking sounds like a basketball coach encouraging one of his players. Followed by another hearty round of guffaws in its wake, as she walks away.
Though mostly spontaneous, this move is not without precedent. I have done this on one other occasion, about a week ago. What can I say? That night I was emboldened by drink possibly just a smidgen, but also that much closer to the termination of my most recently ended relationship. After a year and a half with Jenna, she had abruptly moved out, still not even a month ago. Tonight, as the girls leave – not offended, though spurring our digit requests with knowing, if friendly, simpers – Aaron is shaking his head and lamenting a certain rustiness on his part, which is another excuse I would like to make, however weak, for my own performance.
“Sorry, man, if you think that ass slap ruined it,” I tell him, while we stroll back to rejoin the others.
“Nah, I don’t think that was it. In fact, if I had to say…,” he replies, squinting over at the door now, either trying to see if they’ve left yet or scouting for some newer targets, “I think she kind of dug it.”
This is my theory too, of course, which is the only reason that I dared doing so. Despite having no idea how things might pan out, during my initial trial run last week, I suspected how they might. Maybe this is just wishful thinking on my part, but based on such admittedly limited evidence, it appears that the women might secretly admire this – only if the conditions are right. If you are standing around with a half circle of your chums and a lone female wanders past, that is a recipe for disaster, slapping her on the backside. However, if she feels comfortable enough, like for instance in this well-lit, two on two setting, standing right beside one of her best friends, and not to mention if I’m not mistaken even possibly an inch or so taller than me, then you just might pull this off.
Aaron concurs, mostly, though I can see his wheels are turning, weighing the philosophical ramifications and what this all might mean. We are both aware – as is Dylan and most of my other male cohorts – that all the so called classic knowledge is due a drastic rethink. The game is always changing, and his six months away from singlehood represents a lifetime. As for my year and a half, this may as well represent the written history of mankind.
What other ideas are floating out there in the ether, waiting for some intrepid soul to reach out and snatch? The possibilities are endless. The era of outrageous experiments has begun.
Well, as I was saying, those who feel this novel is precisely the cure for their winter blues, you will not only receive your copy before the masses, but also pick up a slew of my other works in the process. Just click the image below to order from my official author store:
Alrighty, thanks as always for reading! Enjoy the rest of your week, and we will connect again real soon!
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