Aaaand, Scene.

Frat Boy Wisdom

"I've come to the conclusion that college girls are easy. I could've had sex with at least two this weekend. But I didn't. I went to the strip club instead, where I paid for women to be naked."

The Stuff of Dreams

[As we pass KFC on our daily commute.]

Belle: I just remembered this dream I had last night... about eating fried chicken... That's terrible.
Travel Buddy: No, that's the best way to do it.
Belle: What? Eat fried chicken? In my dreams?
Travel Buddy: Yeah. Do you feel satisfied?
Belle: No. I feel like a fat girl. Who dreams about eating fried chicken?


Later that day, I smell the tell-tale scent wafting through my cube. Frat Boy has brought in some sinfully delicious looking wraps featuring (you guessed it) fried chicken.

I jump up and leave my cube faster than a crackhead splitting at the sight of blue lights.

An hour and change later, I return, thinking I've safely avoided temptation. I open the door and walk into our department only to be faced by another colleague sitting down to enjoy a delectible smelling meal of (again... you guessed it) fried chicken.

Without a viable excuse for escape, I have to resign myself to whining via chat as I suffer through the excruciating scent-sation.

Belle: The world is against me. I just got back from my avoid-the-fried-chicken lunch and the dude who sits by the door is eating Popeye's.
AJ: This has to be a sign.
Belle: A sign of what?
AJ: I don't know. Tell me more about your dream :)
Belle: Well, fried chicken was featured briefly in a previous dream of the evening, but I managed to avoid it. Then, in this one, you and I were hosting some sort of small gathering.
The caterers delivered two HUGE platters of fried chicken, and you're all "This isn't for us. We need to call them and have them get it"
And I'm all, "What are they going to do with it? They'll have to throw it out. We should just keep it."
And then I'm biting every drumstick in sight.
Just one bite from all of them, mind you, but still biting all of them.
I think it's a sign that I'm sick.
:)
AJ: Or pregnant. or...
Belle: Nope. Not preggars. At least that test said no... ;-)
AJ: Or it might be a sign that you're not ready to commit to one guy yet. You want to test the waters. You know they are bad for you, but you're eating them/using them/playing with them anyway.
Belle: Oooh... Now there's something I hadn't thought of. I was too busy thinking of the food to think what it might represent... You're brilliant!
AJ: Mmhmm

...

I'm still dreaming of fried chicken, though.

We Walk

Tomorrow, we walk.

We walk for the countless who've been affected and the countless who will be. We walk for those who have had and who will have no choice but to fight. For their families and friends.

This year, I walk for my friend's mom, designated mere weeks ago with stage four inflammatory breast cancer. She means the world to my friend. My friend means the world to me.

Every day I hope her story ends with remission, hope, a future. Every day I battle doubts and fears that she may not. I can't imagine being in my friend's shoes. Having to deal with those doubts and fears multiplied to infinity about the person in the world who means the most to her.

This friend of mine? She's the reason I walked last year. For months, we trained for the walk and raised funds for the cause and spread the word about prevention and early detection to our friends and loved ones.

Still, despite it all, her mom was diagnosed not quite a year after our many-miled march through DC/VA/MD with one of the rarest and most aggressive forms of breast cancer out there.

I know no one who hasn't had to deal with the far-reaching, negative effects of cancer. And I'd like nothing better than to see it eradicated.

So I walk. So we walk. In the hope that more stories will end with remission, hope, a future. In the hope that this money will aid prevention efforts, result in us seeing fewer cancer cases. That our efforts will help those working toward finding a cure succeed in their mission.

On The Opener: Fake It to Make It

AJ has been perched against the wall for a few minutes, separated from me and the others only by a few feet. As soon as I join her, he appears.

"So, I have to learn two new or interesting facts before the end of the night." Could've been a decent opener if he played it better, but he rushes it. Doesn't enunciate and project enough to push through the music and barroom noise.

I make him repeat himself, and his smile begins to look like it's a burden to maintain.

"Who gave you the assignment?" AJ asks, throwing him.

He hesitates before saying it's just for him, offering no further explanation. Apologizing when he has to repeat himself. Telling us he should speak more from his diaphragm. And, just like that, he's lost his audience.

He knows it, too. We see it in his body language as he moves to the side, literally slumps against the wall.

----

Approaching a group... Getting us involved with an open-ended question... Downplaying any allusions on our part to dating or sex or flirtation...

I thought I'd seen a fledgling Strauss-ite at work, but it turns out his self-help preference was Dating for Dummies. So perhaps Strauss's art form isn't exclusive to the PUA set, after all.

Days 7-9 in The Stylelife Challenge are devoted to the approach, or what Strauss calls The Opener.

First things first, Strauss tells guys to discard any lame-ass pickup lines they might be stockpiling.

"Do you come here often?" "What's your sign? "You must be tired... because you've been running through my mind all day." "Did it hurt?... When you fell down from heaven?"

While sometimes good for a chuckle, these lines are cliched and groan-worthy at best, and entirely skeevy and offputting at worst.

Strauss goes on to tell guys exactly how they should approach a group of people -- by asking an open-ended question that appears spontaneous, is motivated by curiosity, and is interesting to most people. He then offers advice to fine-tune the approach.

Smile. Be original. Be charismatic. Put your audience at ease. Show off your personality. Use your body language to your benefit. Keep everyone in your audience engaged. Know when to make your exit.

That guy at the bar? He was the same twitchy geek when he walked up that he was when he left.

The difference between those first few seconds, when he had our attention, and the last few, AJ long gone and my polite dismissal via handshake? Very briefly when he arrived, he seemed confident, sure of himself, happy, and content. Even if he was faking some or all of those things, he successfully engaged us in a conversation.

When it came to maintaining that? He let two feisty women get the best of him in a matter of mere seconds. Without even meaning to, AJ and I poked holes all in his tinfoil armor, revealing his insecurities and effectively exposing his lack of masculine appeal.

If nothing else, Strauss must do his followers a service in hammering home the importance of maintaining that happy, confident, in-charge facade. Of playing it cool even when you're sweating bullets.

I've played the fake-it-'til-you-make-it game before, countless times in countless situations. There really is something to be said for it.

The Stylelife Challenge: Days 1-6

Note: I've been bad about this Challenge business. Clearly. I could give you myriad excuses about my hectic schedule and moving and temporarily misplacing the book and whatnot, but I won't. :) Instead, I'll just jump right back into this thing...

- Set goals.
- Define how you're perceived and how you want to be perceived.
- Get out and talk to people.
- Start working to improve your physical appearance, voice, posture, etc.
- Boost confidence and build self-esteem.
- Stop being your own biggest obstacle.

I'm nearly one week into The Stylelife Challenge, and so far I can't disagree with anything Neil Strauss is selling.

In fact, I'm looking back at the long line of mopes I've dated and thinking that not a small number of the group would benefit from his directed challenges. Were they enrolled in the Strauss school, the poorly dressed would've shrugged off their stretched, faded, and holy T-shirts for better fitted apparel. The couch potatoes would've gotten their asses moving to the gym or the track or the courts on a regular basis. The dull and monotone would've learned the art of captivating storytelling. The ones who needed to practice personal hygiene would've (gasp!) practiced personal hygiene.

And If they'd all done all that? Well, it probably wouldn't have made my dating life a shining example of how to navigate the world of love, but at least I would've been navigating accompanied more often with menfolk who put some effort into the business.

Strauss claims he wants these guys to pay attention to appearance, particularly the little things (fingernails, eyebrows, etc.), because women do. And, by and large, he's right. Women somersault through hoops of fucking fire to look good. So why the hell don't we deserve a dating pool that does the same?

Strauss advocates adopting a sense of personal pride. Improving yourself on myriad levels to up your viability in the game. And I find absolutely nothing to argue with here.

That's the me now, though.

For years I did nothing to rid myself of the extra pounds. I wore what was comfortable, whether it was faded or holy or not. Simply put, I neglected myself. And, yet, I lamented the lack of interest from the males around me. Wondered why the ones who did come calling didn't treat me like a fairy tale princess. I told myself I wanted a man who could see past the superficial to the true beauty within me.

Yet when guys who were overweight or slovenly hit on me? Yeah... I tended to shoot them down. Didn't really bother to look for any prince inside those toads.

I wanted something from my potential mates that I wasn't willing to give in return. I demanded that they respect and care for themselves in a way I wasn't willing to respect and care for myself. And my potential mates looked at me and saw that, because I didn't respect and care for myself, they wouldn't have to either. I don't know why it took me so long to see it, but I finally have.

And now? I am not model thin. My fingernails are sometimes snagged, and my toenail polish doesn't always carry a brilliant sheen. I am human. I am flawed. But I'm constantly working to improve myself, in both the physical and mental realms, and I am going to demand the same from any future partners.

I don't know what the remaining 24 days will bring, but right now I think every guy out there should be living the lessons from Days 1-6, as much for themselves as for The Game.

This is Why Men Should Open Doors

So, my coworker and I decide to step out and enjoy the fleeting nice weather. I need to run an errand. He needs to pick up lunch.

At our first stop, I open the door and walk in first. He's right on my heels, telling me a story about his weekend of debauchery. When I pass through the door and drop my arm, my hand lands squarely on his package.

He stutters and laughs, loses his train of thought. Tells me he'll finish his story when I finish my task.

I beeline ahead, trying not to let him see my profile and the fire rising to my cheeks. Try to pretend nothing's happened.

At our next stop, I hang back and let him handle the door.

On Being the Other Woman

I admit it: I was jealous of a video game.

I never thought I'd feel like I was fighting artificial intelligence for the attention of a guy. My guy.

But I saw him thinking about Her all the time, talking about Her when we were at dinner or lying in bed or driving down the street. Planning how he could do this or that. With Her.

Sometimes I couldn't help but feel like he put more effort and thought into the game than he did into our relationship. I saw him taking for granted that I would plan everything and/or be willing to sit around with him on weekends and free nights. Watching him playing Her.

I should have known going in. He never hid or downplayed the fact that She was a big part of his life. But at first, while things were still fresh and new and we were constantly doing and going, She was less of an issue.

I even thought it endearing, at first, that he went to check in on Her first thing in the a.m., before taking a whiz or brushing his teeth. Found his brunch talk of manufacturing and investing plans entertaining, in a boyish way.

But when, one night as we lay together, I asked him for a story, and he told me Her creation myth, I began to resent the pattern.

She was everywhere. In everything we did. When he came to my place, he brought his laptop so he could check Her message boards as I cooked dinner. When we traveled, She always came along.

If he hadn't planned ahead, he couldn't stay the night. "Need to get home and update my skills." His investment in Her, his devotion and commitment to Her brought out my feelings of resentment, jealousy.

When I told him I saw Her as an issue, he told me he didn't. As I watched him walk away, leaving me lying in his bed, head resting on a tear-soaked pillow, to return to Her, I knew. It was over.

She, that game, had his human heart more firmly in her hands than I ever had or would. I had merely been a fling. The other woman.

'I Ain't Tryin' to Ride...'

I contemplated taking the stairs. The elevators in the aging building are, after all, taxed by ceaseless summons from residents with busy lives.

But climbing 15 flights after several beers, in that tight skirt? I decided the task was better left undone and pushed the Up button.

With my head down in the appropriate awaiting-the-elevator/avoiding-potential-eye-contact stance, I initially only took note of the mismatched pair revealed by the opening doors because of her jerky, frantic movements.

The aging, frizzy-haired woman tugged roughly at the hem of her wrinkled button-down and fought to align her baggy, ill-fitting suit with her wasting body as she half-jogged from the elevator to the exit door. She was still pulling violently at her pants with one hand, adjusting, it appeared, her underwear beneath the fabric with the other, as she pushed through the glass door and out into the cool night air.

Were she to have stepped out of the elevator and proceed to the door in a normal fashion, I might have kept my head down. Might've missed those telltale signs of the addict. Meth, most likely, given her uneven movements, her darting, untrusting eyes, the hair damaged beyond all external chemical possibility, the skin-on-bones body, the haggard face…

Or, perhaps, I merely associate addicts with Meth because it’s been the drug of choice for the only true addicts I’ve known. Because so many of those problems I keep a thousand miles away are inextricably tied to that deadly, addictive, soul-stealing, life-crushing drug. The drug made so popular and recognized as so terrible because you (Yes, You!) can make it in your home, with things you can buy at The Wal-Mart.

Something in her movements, her expressions, the way she carried her body as if she wished it could fold in on itself as she practically ran from whatever it was she'd left behind up there… something told me Meth wasn’t her only problem. Her only secret.

My mind raced. "Was that woman a... No, it couldn't be... Could it? In my building???"

I wondered, fleetingly, about her life. She looked older than my mother, but her face doubtlessly carried more age from hard knocks, more age from hard hits, bumps, lines, and shots, than age from years.

What circumstances could have led her to the unhappy life revealed in the deep lines etched on her face? What could have driven her to this place, at this time, with me here to witness her frenzied, unkempt flight from my building?

The man who accompanied her down -- very tall and dark and thick by comparison -- stepped forward as if to leave as well, only to step back, stand aside, hold the door.

Stepping into the small compartment, I pushed the uppermost button for my uppermost floor and glanced up toward the man swaying awkwardly in front of me. He looked over at the sole lit number, leaned in slightly, and said, "I ain't tryin' to ride all the way up there just to..."

Just to what? I wondered. Does he think I could be like her? One of his ‘girls’? I focus on indignation at the presumption to prevent my mind from wandering down that familiar tract, exploring the potential what and how and why and when that led me on such a distinct path from those who were once so close to me.

As his words trailed off, I noted his wide, bloodshot eyes, the slow circular orbit his upper body followed as his feet stood planted firmly, one in the elevator, one out.

He leaned pointedly my way and half-whispered, "Wow. You're beautiful."

"Thank you," I forced a smile. "You have a nice night."

Those Deep South manners do, it turns out, serve a purpose, after all. He took the hint. Took the necessary steps to vacate that metal box.

I watched the doors slide silently closed and exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Later, on the phone with a friend, I replayed the whole interlude, laughing it off. Pushing it down. Trying to make light of the grim, unnerving scene.

----------------------------

The next morning, I find a message in my inbox. It’s traveled a thousand continental miles to reach me, to drag me back into that world of my purposefully buried knowledge as new drama unfolds.

I know the sentences and paragraphs on the screen before me don’t tell but part of the story unfolding now in The ‘Sip. They don’t even cover half, I’m sure. The grittiest facts will have been weeded out for my benefit. Those details that cast the tellers in an unflattering light, eliminated for theirs.

While the fine points might change, I already know this story. Sadly, we all do. It’s almost certainly the beginning of a long, turbulent cycle for the players down there, and I’ll only be clued in, bit by unsavory bit, as I piece together what I can from this source and that.

Who knows how long it will last this time. Whether the yield merely will be more heartache and suffering, or if the ramifications will be more finite... Prison? Death? And, of course, there are the children to consider…

And, So, I Drank It

We imagined ourselves on the wild frontier, our powerful horses carrying us through deserts and mountains, across streams, away from one danger and into another. We were witches, concocting potions in the rain to wreak havoc upon those who'd wronged us. We were the President's kids, rebelling on motorcycles, dodging the Secret Service.

Our childhood play was thematic and never-ending. We adopted characters for each of our stories. When we bored of one, we moved easily to another, picking up about where we'd left off the last time.

Weekend after weekend, summer after summer, we cycled through our favorite adventures, throwing in plot twists and deviations as we explored the possibilities of our imaginations.

We lived on a house boat in shark- or alligator-infested waters, depending on our mood, the air. When the stars and constellations appeared in the night sky, we became aliens. As Dippers, we walked with our arms at odd angles, punctuating each footstep with a noise akin to that of a suction cup's release.

Our props were limited. Our bikes morphed seamlessly from snow mobiles to horses to motorcycles to lions or tigers or giraffes escaped from a circus train wreck. My parents' covered porch served as stolen yacht, secret prison, sinking houseboat, runaway train. The wooden jungle gym Father built was a castle, a casino, a tree in the rain forest, a military command center. We climbed to the roof of our shed and looked down from a snowy mountain, an abandoned water tower, a wayward blimp.

We explored the woods, darting into and out of the state park just on the other side of the railroad tracks before the rangers made their rounds. The open fields surrounding our house were just as likely battle sites as movie sets.

Kel was agreeable, for the most part. She did her best to stay neutral in the sibling spats YB and I so often tried to pull her into. She went along with almost anything and instigated almost nothing. Unthinking, really, is what she was. Not dumb. Just not bright.

Deep conversations were limited, but Kel did have a more serious side. Like when she talked about her scars. It had been her oldest brother's fault. He poured gasoline onto a bonfire. The flame traveled up the liquid stream and leaped over to her little body. Hers. Not his. The scars covered most of her stomach, parts of her neck, back and legs. She kept them hidden, mostly, and rarely brought the subject up.

Looking back, I realize that Kel had a much better grasp of the unfairness of life than I did.

Kel's Mee Maw and Paw Paw lived right next door to her. Their house was always cool and bright and quiet and spotlessly clean. Mee Maw made the best sweet tea you'd ever tasted. Paw Paw gave us snacks of bright red tomatoes fresh from the garden or huge, juicy, purple grapes from the vine.

In all our years of playing, I found myself inside Kel's house but a handful of times. The tiny square building looked unkempt from the outside. It had needed a fresh coat of paint for as long as I could remember. The steps leaned to the side and had two missing boards. The grass was always too long and littered with bikes and shoes and bottles and tires and whatever else didn't make it wherever it should have gone.

Inside, the place was dark and gloomy. The windows were covered with heavy-duty trashbags, probably to minimize the sunlight, since there was no central air.

Her father never seemed to leave. The monstrous television was always on and blaring NASCAR at top volume while her father chain-smoked Marlboro Reds and drank can after can of Milwaukee's Best.

Piles of things, stacked for years against the walls, the tables, the furniture, had edged gradually to the center of every room, leaving only slender walking trails of bare floor from one room to the next. In the kitchen, stacks of dirty dishes filled the sink, hiding the faucet from sight, and covered the counters, the stove.

Sweaty, sleepless nights in the dank house reminded me to say no the next time she asked me to sleep over. To suggest we stay at my place, in the cool air conditioning, where we'd stay up late watching forbidden movies and awake early to Stepmom making breakfast and eat warm biscuits and scrambled eggs in our bright, clean kitchen.

But we always stay at your house, she'd remind me, doing a bad job of masking her hurt feelings. And so I'd give in. Prepare myself for those unpalatable sights, smells, sounds.

Friendship means trade-offs, after all.

One sweltering afternoon when our play led us nearer her house than mine, we stopped by Mee Maw & Paw Paw's for an ice cold glass of tea. When we saw they weren't home, Kel suggested we trek next door to her house to quench our thirst.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark of the oppressive kitchen, I glimpsed the critters scampering out of the skillet used, it appeared, to make Hamburger Helper. Chills ran up my sweat-covered spine, and I willed Kel to move faster.

She brought out two glasses and lifted the pitcher of tea, only to set it back down immediately. I found the reason for her hesitation --- three tiny roaches floating on the surface of the dark, strong beverage --- just as she swooped her unwashed hand down to fish them out. Without a word, she unceremoniously cast the pests onto the floor, poured us each a tall glass of the tainted tea, and began gulping hers down immediately.

I looked at her and at the glass intended for me. And I wished I had a good reason to leave. I strained to hear someone calling for me to come home. Desperately searched for an honest getaway.

When I didn't reach for my glass, she handed it to me, eyeing me sideways as she chugged.

Clutching the befouled drink in both hands, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself somewhere else. Anywhere else. But I continued to breathe the heavy smoke-filled air. My ears were still assaulted by the ear-splitting racing noises emanating from the next room. My overheated body still ached for a break from the airless, high-temperature humidity.

Kel's glass was almost empty, and she was regarding me steadily out of the corner of her eye. I knew she'd seen me see those bugs. And I knew she was testing me. Testing my friendship. And, so, I drank it.

I'd never tasted such a bittersweet concoction. Choking down that contaminated beverage on that intolerable day, we watched each other. And I knew that Kel knew I wouldn't be back to her home. Wouldn't be making trade-offs and compromises for her friendship anymore. Oddly, I could sense in her something akin to satisfaction in possessing the knowledge.

The 95th Percentile

Strauss’s Challenge has a web site. (Fancy that.) Some of the resources for the challenge are located on the site, so I got my quasi-neophyte self online and registered for an account.

First things first… Let’s begin with the Personal Profile Analysis!

Changing your life for the better starts with having an understanding of where you are today. The Stylelife Personality Profile Analysis will test your skills with women, measure your experiences in comparison to the national average, let you know exactly which of eight dating personality types you fit into, and tell you what you need - and how long it will take - to reach the next level.

So I fill out some forms telling the interwebz general information about:
- My love life: (Age; # of Distinct Intimate Partners to Date; time spent in serious relationships; etc.)
- My goals (Options include: increasing #/quality of sexual partners; losing virginity; finding woman for marriage; becoming a master seducer, etc. I pick Improving networking/business skills.)
- My beliefs (which could be more accurately titled “my social fears/behaviors/perceptions”)
- My learning strategies (desired timeframe; devotion to project; preferred learning methods, etc.)

I answer the questions truthfully, as myself. Not as if I am trying to be some dude.

And, the verdict?

My Stylelife Type: The Observer Guy

My profile tells me that I’ve got most (if not all) of the tools I need to meet (and have) women at my fingertips. I’m smart. Perhaps even smarter than dudes who are more successful than the ladies. But I tend to be a fence-sitter, standing at the back of the crowd watching everyone else have all the fun. Sometimes I can’t even get the courage to leave the house.

Sounds exactly like me, doesn’t it? ;-)

Mmmkay. Now, for the rest of it…


Mating Success Indicator: 95%!!!

Holy Shit! If I were a guy, I'd be in the 95th percentile for my age group in the Likelihood of Spreading My Seed category?!?!

The MSI Chart shows how you compare to the rest. 50% is average.

I… I really don't know what to say. If I were a dude, would I get some kind of medal or something for fucking more people than all the other dudes I know? Umm... I think a speech of some sort is in order…

I’d like to thank the many late nights at my favorite college bar (R.I.P. – You’ll always have a place in my heart!) … and the Walk-Me-Downs. And my favorite (now retired) Gettin’ Lucky Skirt (You know you’re irreplaceable!) And, oh, yeah, all the menfolk who met me and subsequently stuck it to me. I couldn’t have done this without all of you!

Jebus. How the hell was that number calculated, anyway?*

But, seriously... that can't be right, can it? I've had sex with more people than 95% of the guys my age?!?!? I mean, I’ve been around the block, but I haven’t been around the freakin’ continent…

Oh, wait. They had to get that data from somewhere, right? I'm being compared to the guys who are on this site because they can't get laid on their own. Right? Right? Phew… For a second there, I was thinking... Well, nevermind what I was thinking…

But now I’m confused all over again. I’m in the fucking 95^th percentile of Gettin’ Laid, and I’m The Observer Guy? Jebus! How much sexin’ does one have to do to NOT be considered a wallflower by the folks/’puters running the Stylelife Challenge?


* Apparently, my MSI was calculated like this:

My Age
– Average Age of Men’s Virginity Loss
= Remainder

Remainder
– Years in Monogamous Relationship(s)
= Years Available for Active Dating

Unique Intimate Partners
Years Available for Active Dating
= # of Hookups per Annum

My # of Hookups per Annum
v. Average Person
(my age and relationship years)

See? Tolja. Very scientific.

Belle: The Nomad

Later this week, I'll be moving for the 24th time in my 27 years.

I'll skip the commentary on what that may or may not say about myself and my family and just give the general announcement that updates on my progress with Mr. Strauss's Challenge are on hold until I get my ass out of one crappy place and into another (less crappy?) place.

Oh, but that friend who inspired me to finally get off my ass and do this challenge business? Yeah, he already landed a date (and some additional dates). All with a hot foreign teacher chick, no less...

Clearly, I don't get it.

After years of smoking, I gave up my cigs cold turkey and haven't looked back. I know that even one little puff of that carcinogen-laced nicotine can re-open the door for all kinds of terrible things to be revisited, by me and upon me.

But these guys who come and are gone within a few months' time? For some reason, I seem to think it would be too hard to quit them cold turkey. No, I thinks in the recesses of my feeble mind. I need to torture myself every once in a while with a little drag from the cancerous ex-boyfriend stick. And they need a little torturous drag every once in a while, too. It'll be okay. Just a little every now and then never hurt anyone.

And so I don't cut off communication. I end things, and I'm all like, Why don't we stay "friends"? And they're all like, Yeah. We should stay "friends."

But the reality is that we're not friends. We never were friends. We met, we dated, we broke up, and then we agreed to maintain awkward, stilted, sporradic contact for the purpose of... what, exactly?

To come along and rip the scab off each other's nearly-healed wounds every so often?

Jebus. I'm one sadomasochistic bitch.

That's a Lame Excuse for a Parable, Strauss

DISCLAIMER: Feeling extreme angst and moderate hatred toward males while writing this. Probably not giving it a fair chance. Definitely don't give a shit.



The Rules of the Game is actually a sleekly-packaged set of two books.

The first, the little white book, is The Stylelife Challenge, source of the daily assignments meant to mold a mere mortal man into that exalted being known as a Pickup Artist.

The little black book, The Style Diaries, contains stories from Neil Straus's many, many (many) hookups. I'm getting the feeling that it stands apart from his earlier PUA novel, The Game, in that it's almost an apology. Almost.

It's actually a pretty weak series of fabled stories meant, as I understood it, to be taken as Strauss's attempt at fleshing out the cliche, "With great power comes great responsibility."

So, hey, kudos to Strauss for trying in some small way to mitigate the potential damage visited upon countless women with this PUA business.

But if that is, in fact, Strauss's intent, I'm giving him a failing grade.

The book begins and ends with details from conversations between Strauss and his guru. In the preface, Strauss writes:

"I don't want to just offer you a self-help book and tell you that, if you follow it, in thirty days your life will be perfect. There's another side to the game: the destructive side. And, the more successful you are, the more you're going to rub against it."

Okay... So far, so good, right? I mean, you leave that kind of point-blank author-to-reader (mentor-to-pupil?) straight talk feeling like you're going to get some valuable, life-altering insight into why you should play The Game with caution, right? At least that's what I thought.

Unfortunately, the 11 stories illustrating the Rules of The Game fall incredibly short of the hard-hitting lessons I was expecting. Hoping for.

The stories are slightly pathetic and, somehow, simultaneously narcissistic.

I'll give you a synopsis.*

Rule 1: You don't choose who you fuck. Your penis does.
Synopsis: Strauss fucks broke down old broad. Old broad gets a makeover. Strauss thinks, momentarily, he's the Redeemer of Fuck. Then he's grateful to the old broad for teaching and/or giving him something I failed to grasp.
Belle's take: Your penis is stupid. And you're no Redeemer of Fuck. Get the fuck over yourself. She had a pee bag, for fuck's sake.

Rule 2: You're only as strong as your weakest link.
Synopsis: Strauss fails as wingman.
Belle's take: Boo-fucking-hoo. That guy wasn't even a good friend of yours anyway. And the chick you were supposed to bang was already knocked up by some other creep. So you and your boy don't get laid for one night. Get over it.

Rule 3: Game knows no bounds, geographical, religious, or otherwise.
Synopsis: Strauss goes to Muslim country. Gets played by Muslim broad.
Belle's take: Again. Boo-fucking-hoo.

Rule 4: Look before you leap.
Synopsis: Strauss fucks sisters (separately). Chooses younger, virginal one. Seems to think this action on his part, in essence ruined life of older, slutty sister.
Belle's take: Get the fuck over yourself. If that girl was going to marry a meth-head loser and throw away her life, she was going to do it (or something equally stupid) whether you fucked her sister or not.

Rule 5: You make your own reality.
Synopsis: Strauss meets women. Gets head. Has threesome. Meanwhile, Debbie Downer chick keeps herself down by generating negative self-fulfilling prophesies.
Belle's take: Maybe Strauss is onto something with the Debbie Downer chick. She seems to create a seriously negative vibe around herself and run people off. At least I'd want to run away.
But I'm missing exactly how Strauss and/or The Game fit into this scenario. He didn't make these women who they are. And, from his telling of the story, he didn't do much to make anything happen while he was with them, other than to show up and participate. So that makes him, what? A pawn in someone else's game? Poor, threesome-having baby!

Rule 6: Think positive, but have an escape plan.
Synopsis: A good little church girl falls in love with Strauss via email. When she comes to visit, he rustles up his conscience and manages to not take her virginity. Tries to let her down gently.
Belle's take: Good job, Strauss. Seems like you dusted off the conscience prior to the exploitation this time. Kudos. Really.

Rule 7: Obstacles can turn into the keys you need.
Synopsis: Strauss interviews old guy. Old guy's granddaughter is hawt. After much fancy footwork, Strauss manages to bang hawt granddaughter. Old guy bursts in on them in bed together and has a hearty guffaw. Strauss has bonding moment with old guy.
Belle's take: Old guy is a creepy, skeevy, disgusting man, obviously licking his lips while fantasizing about his hawt but untouchable granddaughter.

Rule 8: It's okay to let your emotions have a say every once in a while.
Synopsis: Strauss meets woman on foreign street, they let drunk guy "marry" them. Wait, was he a real priest? "Newlyweds"(?) form a "real connection." Strauss doesn't get her last name. Exalts fake, untraceable wife to pedestal. Randomly runs into and subsequently fucks fake wife a year later on domestic soil. Still doesn't bother to get her name.
Belle's take: Oh, come now. "The problem with 100% perfect love is that sometimes it's inconvenient."?!? Please. You told her a sappy "Serendipity" story to try to get into her pants, forgot your place, and started believing it yourself. What's convenient, really, is that neither of you could ever contact each other to see if this 100% perfect "love" could stand the test of, oh, I dunno, let's say a 24-hour period.

Rule 9: Without trust, there is no love.
Synopsis: Strauss really likes girl. Girl has pregnancy scare. Strauss suddenly remembers how clingy and jealous she's been of late. Realizes he couldn't possibly commit further to clingy, jealous girl.
Belle's take: While I agree with the sentiment of the actual rule, I think the story of Strauss deciding the relationship's inevitable, impending doom in the midst of this potential crisis (and subsequently, strangely, deciding to use this story to illustrate this particular rule) just highlights that he's an irresponsible creep who isn't ready or willing to face any consequences for his actions.

Rule 10: Temptation is a bitch.
Synopsis: Strauss, in a seriously misunderstood attempt to achieve some kind of enlightenment or clarity or whatever-the-fuck (He doesn't even know what he's looking for. How should the reader?), vows not to ejaculate for 30 days. Women come out of the woodwork wanting to fuck him. To torture him. Ever the considerate being, he offers his them his services, minus the final act. He has phone sex, he fucks women, he even attempts a threesome. But no orgasm for him. (Still not sure what the big deal is... Women have been managing this for untold ages...)
Until, that is, the 11th day. Then he just has to ejaculate during phone sex to salvage the ego of the woman he's had an entire relationship with OVER THE PHONE. The Lesson? If you're going to give up alcohol for Lent, it's probably best you don't hang out in the bar every goddamn night.
Belle's take: No shit, asshole. But what are you really telling your readers? Oh, that's right. Just look to the end for that answer... "I am an addict. I am a man." So, you're saying men can't possibly practice self-restraint because you have penises? It's not a choice; it's an addiction. Perfect! Instant absolution for every cheating man out there. You NEED sex. And not just any sex, but sex with as many women as possible. And so you shall have it. Thanks to your oh-so-helpful book, women everywhere get it now. You'll have no more pesky requests for monogamy from us. Promise.

Rule 11: You're probably going to die alone.
Synopsis: 1. She loves me gently, sweetly, patiently. I feel trapped. Must escape. 2. She loves me passionately, greedily, angrily. I feel trapped. Must escape. 3. Shit. I'm going to die alone.
Belle's take: Well, really, I think you said it all this time, didn't you, Mr. Strauss?

In the postface, Strauss is back with the guru guy, who ends up imparting what is, quite possibly, the only worthwhile lesson in the whole book.

It is essentially this:

You worked hard to become a successful Pickup Artist. If you don't want to die alone, you have will have to work just as hard, if not harder, to develop and maintain a life-long relationship.

Alternately, you can continue playing The Game forever and hope that last fling before you get your own pee bag is saddled with her own guilty conscience and ends up sticking around.

Your choice.



* The "Rules" listed here are merely bastardized restatements of Strauss's. I don't want any trouble from the plagiarism police.

But, But... I Want More

So, it'd been several days since my W.H.D.-filled* weekend.

Other than the occasional steamy scene flashing to mind at the more inappropriate times of the workday, I hadn't given him much thought.

I hadn't even cyber-stalked him. (Okay, there was that 5 seconds on Facebook confirming his name. But, then, zilch. Promise.)

Anyway, four days and change go by, and suddenly, there's a text from him. We exchange a few general pleasantries before I go about my evening plans.

Some time later, getting home from a couple hours of endorphin-enducing activity, I'm kind of high on life and thinking of my soon-to-arrive house guests. Wondering how long you can leave a singular encounter hanging before it permanently moves into the one-night-stand category.

Maybe the adrenaline is fucking with my head. Maybe it's the newly-free, unattached Belle remembering singledom can be seriously fun, given an equation with the right factors. Anyway, I send a thinly-veiled invite his way.

So... I just realized I have more free time than I'd anticipated... tomorrow night, the following morning...

Moments later, my phone is ringing.

W.H.D. is asking about my day, my week. And I'm asking about his. We're joking and carrying on like people who know each other. We are not talking like fuck buddies.

And the whole time, I'm thinking of LADirtyDisco's recent recitation of Samantha Jones' Hookup Rules, and wondering what she'll say about me engaging in such frivolous conversation.

Then, the tempo lags.

W.H.D.: So... I have to tell you something.
Belle: Okay. (I already know. Whatever form it's coming in, the result is the same. Our fling is officially a one-night stand. Goddammit. I want more hot, dirty sex with this guy!)
W.H.D.: There's no good way to say this, so I'm just going to say it... Ex-girlfriend, yadda, yadda, yadda...

He apologizes a lot, says he feels bad, tells me he likes me and never would've invited me to his place if he'd known this was going to happen.

And I'm wishing he wasn't saying nice things, making me contemplate anything beyond what I'd already determined would have been the course of this would-be non-relationship, were it to be. Wondering what part of the 'let's have fun and keep this casual' memo he missed to be saying what he is saying.

I tell him he doesn't need to apologize. Tell him I hope things work out with them.

I even mean it.

He says he hopes he still gets to see me... around. I tell him I'm sure he will.

And, unfortunately, I am absolutely certain of it. It would be far too convenient and neat if he just faded out of my life as quickly as he made his appearance, as permanently as he made his impression.

In the end, I'm out one perfectly good fuck buddy AND left thinking, wow... this guy is sincere, and nice, and he likes me, and his career is in the same field as my passion, and there might've been something there if things had time to go further...

Now I'm just wondering why he contacted me again at all.

And even pondering that just seems to point to the fact that he's a good guy. That he didn't want to leave me hanging, to find out he's back with an ex via a friend (or worse, in person at some inevitable future gathering).

Ugh. Apparently, all it takes is a little 'adios, Belle' from a dude to whom I'm relatively unattached to make me start weighing his merits and slip into gaga mode.

And then there's that nagging voice, planted and nurtured in me during my conservative, religious upbringing. Telling me I'm getting what I deserve for wanting 'bad' things. For being greedy and superficial and driven by self-satisfaction.

But, seriously, y'all. I'm out a perfectly good fuck buddy and have to add yet another one-nighter notch to my proverbial bedpost.

Fucking hell.


* Pun intended.

The Game: Getting out of the Gate

As promised, I've begun Neil Strauss's The Stylelife Challenge: Mastering the Game in 30 Days.

So far, it's pretty innocuous.

The first mission for Day 1 involved some basic self-assessment. I'd say it's not a bad way for pretty much anyone to prepare for entering the dating world.

That was followed by some pretty sound advice about what Strauss has deemed a "limiting belief."

A limiting belief is something that you believe about yourself, or other people, or the world--and although it isn't actually true, the fact that you think it is holds you back from experience and success. Any time you tell yourself you "can't" do something that's within the realm of human possibility--that's a limiting belief.

Well, I can't really argue with the man there. Parents teach children essentially the same thing from a very young age. (See: The Little Engine that Could)

He goes on to give a few examples of common limiting beliefs and to counter those with "Reality." And I tend to agree with both his common examples and his methods of dispelling those beliefs.

I'll give you an abbreviated example.

Limiting Belief: Women are attracted to assholes.
"Reality": It ain't that women are attracted to assholes. It's that women are attracted to men who are (or seem) strong and can make them feel safe. (Belle's thoughts: Just so happens that most guys who accomplish this have a bit of the asshole thing going on, too.)

Anyway, after going through the process of recognizing and dispelling those pesky limiting beliefs, Strauss wants you to go out and, yanno, DO something. So the final challenge for Day 1 is to go talk to some folks. (Specifically, some folks you don't know.)

Mmmkay. Not usually a problem for me, but I can see where it'd be useful for a lot of people.

So, again. We're at the beginning, covering the basics. I'd imagine this is the kind of stuff that begins many of the target audience for a book about dating (shagging/marrying/what-have-

you) whichever sex arouses your libido.

So, onward we trudge. Day 2 to come!