KEN and ARIEL are unemployed bloggers with degrees in English Lit. Naturally, they dispense sex and relationship advice.
DEAR K & A: Everyone I know has a “move.” That thing they do that seals the deal with the opposite sex. I never had a “move” and I so desperately want one. Can you offer any suggestions? And do either of you have any moves that you’ve tested and you could loan me?
Ken Says: A “move”? What the hell is this, 1940? Because that’s the era of the last sure-fire move I know of, which was where Frank Sinatra would walk up to a table full of women and say,
“I’m Frank Sinatra. So why aren’t my balls in your mouth?”
Of course, Frank had his stardom (and, presumably, the Mafia) to back him up. The rest of us aren’t so fortunate. We have to go out and somehow convince other people that fucking us is a good idea.
That’s not always easy. Especially if, like me, you’ve condensed your argument into a fairly compelling Powerpoint presentation and have to troll local bars carrying a laptop and projector.
Sadly, “As you’ll see on slide four, you’re really gonna like my penis,” isn’t the panty-dropper I imagined it would be.
In my younger, foolish days, my move—if you can call it that—consisted of stumbling up to women at last call, cigarettes and cheap beer on my breath, and quoting F. Scott Fitzgerald, presumably to appeal to that “Hey, this guy reads. I wanna sit on his face” gene that I thought all women came equipped with. Needless to say, I spent the majority of those nights in the company of just my fist and a dog-eared copy of “Tender Is The Night.”
Today, I’m not much older and certainly no wiser, but I’ve come to realize that to a young lad looking for female companionship, a “move” is about as useful as a barber pole.
Think about it: We’re all out there for the same reason. Conjuring some sort of one-man dinner theatre piece in a misguided attempt to let someone think that you’re “slick” or “different” or “on parole” only siphons away precious minutes that you could be spending actually talking to someone. Minutes that some other dude would be more than happy to log.
Consider this: Once upon a college evening, I found myself at the local bar, working toward that liver transplant I’ve been dreaming of. At the opposite end of the bar was a stunning red head, all hips and lips, with a beer in her hand and a congenial smile on her face. One by one, I watched the suitors line up to impress her with everything from an impromptu hackey-sack lesson (no, really) to a discussion of one guy’s stock portfolio.
At the end of the night, some unassuming guy in jeans with hair covering his face shuffled up and just started talking with her--”with” being the operative word. The next morning, I spotted the pair of them huddled in a booth at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Brighton, sharing a croissandwich and basking in that warm, fluttery glow that says,
“Dude, we just fucked!”
Ariel Says: A move, eh? How about a job, or at the very least, a credit card? I kid, I kid. But if you’re talking about physical moves, be very careful; one man’s move is another woman’s nightmare. I once went out with a bloke I found quite charming until he “accidentally” spilled his drink on my leg. “Sorry ’bout that. Let me clean it up for you,” he purred while proceeding to lick my leg like a feral cat. I spent the remainder of the evening soaking my gams in bleach.
I know you boys have it tough.
If a girl wants to get it on, she says two words: “Wanna fuck?” Meanwhile, guys have to undergo three hours of interrogation just to get a phone number.
Relax, dear. It doesn’t have to be so difficult. The beauty of a move is that it should feel like it came out of nowhere--subtle, stealthy, but damn sure of itself and its target.
First things first: read my body language. If my knees keep banging yours under the table and I grab your arm at least five times during your thrilling tale of losing a tooth in fourth grade and I’m licking my lips like I’ve just downed three bags of Cool Ranch Doritos with no chaser, then for chrissakes at the end of the night pull me close, let me feel your boner on my leg and stick your tongue down my throat. If I stare longingly at the Exit sign and keep taking emergency calls from friends and the conversation is so stagnant there’s a slight film of green algae over the table, you might want to save that makeout sesh for another victim.
But one thing always works for me: eye contact. Not in a psychotic, restraining order way, just calm, cool and collected.
Make me feel like I’m not just the only woman in the room, but I’m the only female on the planet. Bore those big blue, brown, or hazel laser beams into the depths of my soul and I’ll let you bore something else into the depths of my--holy shit, is it time to wrap up already?
Oh and for the record, my own personal move is quite simple:
“These are real. Wanna feel ‘em?”
Need wildly impractical sex advice? From English majors? Send your questions to info@kenandariel.com or visit kenandariel.com.
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