How to win friends and influence them to sleep with you
03 hours 03 minutes to 03 hours 04 minutes
They say that it is very easy for a guy to get laid in Vegas. Of course, it is easy anywhere in the world these days. All you need is moohlah, a stash of dough that feels so choked inside your stinky wallet, being ceaselessly squashed by your fat bums, that it really wants to break loose and shower down generously like flakes of snow upon a body that has submitted itself to the will of someone else's lust-filled mind. Yes, that is easy. Money buys everything these days and the quality of what you get depends upon the quantity of what you give. WYPISWYG. What you pay is what you get. But how easy or difficult is it for a guy to walk up to a random chick, strike a conversation with her and two hours later have her moaning between the sheets? It ain't easy, I tell you...unless you are some goddam James Bond or something who just goes to a bar to sip a Martini and a Victoria's Secret supermodel pops out of nowhere and begins to drool all over you. But before going to Vegas, I used to think that such 'liasions' are just a fantasy created by horny Hollywood honchos to titillate the imaginations of the youth, who wade around in a fucken swimming pool of hormones. Standing in that lift with the stench of alcohol flaring up my nostrils, trying ever so best to dodge Mr. Drunk's gooey body, I see Mr. Smooth pull out a perfect chapter number 5 from the best seller - "How to win friends and influence them to sleep with you". Well, I ain't so sure about the last part. I mean, I'm not that perverted to follow them to their land of sensual fantasies, for Chrissake! But my logical little pea-brain believes that the third part would've happened for sure.
So, here's what chapter 5 of "How to Win friends and influence them to sleep with you", says :
Step Number 1 : Be Prepared
"Luck favors the prepared mind," Louis Pasteur (the dude who did something to ensure that you and I can drink our milk straight from the carton, without having the need to boil it or anything) once greatly remarked. It's quite a good thought I'd say. Because, even if luck ostracizes you and goes apartheid on your ass, you'll still have the balls to face whatever that comes your way, if you are well prepared. Preparedness is the key, be it to ace your exams or to make your bed belch out rhythmic squeaking noises as if a whole goddam bunch of monkeys from the Planet of the Apes were having an orgy or something. So, if you want to get laid, the first thing you need to do is to look good. No, no, you don't have to look like some goddam Brad Pitt or anything. (But it does help if you have the physique of Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers, after he began parading around in his Captain America tights, not before!) You just need to have the right clothes, the right hair-do, the right shoes and the right eau-de-cologne, sprinkled just enough to have it act like a pheromone but not as much to make you smell as if you were fucken marinated in it. No, I don't know what ought to be the 'right' clothes and accessories. Had I known that, I would've been horsing around with Hugh Hefner's bunnies right now, for Chrissake! Anyway, what I want to tell you is that Mr. Smooth looks well prepared.
Step 2 : The Conversation Starter
An Armani hugging your body and a Rolex shimmering on your wrist will get you nowhere, if you don't know how to talk. As such, starting a conversation with an unknown person is no cakewalk. But starting a conversation with a girl with the intent of doing you-know-what in the near future, is even more difficult. Conversation starters are an art and what should be the ideal conversation starter is nothing short of rocket science. I swear! Sometimes, even a simple 'Hello' and a smile flicked at an appropriate angle can do wonders. But if you smile a little more than what is required, you'll end up looking like a fucken drooling moron. You shouldn't sound too dorky like fucken Dexter (I'm talking about that midget kid whose face is bigger than his body and not about the guy who goes around killing people for a living) or something, nor should you sound too sleazy like you were some impoverished pimp, willing to poke his dick into the first hole he finds. You should neither sound too cool and gentle like some chivalrous English nobleman of the 14th Century stabbing a lance through someone's ass to uphold your lady's dignity, nor should you sound obsessed and psycho like fucken Jack the Ripper or something.There are gazillions of bad conversation starters, but only a few good ones. It's like that 8 Queens Problem they taught you in Algorithms class, where you had to place 8 queens on the chessboard so that they couldn't attack each other - there are only a few correct solutions and a million incorrect ones. But when it comes to conversation starters, you can't even fucken backtrack for Chrissake!
The elevator chimes as it goes down floor-by-floor. The group of girls who stand huddled in the center are unusually silent. No more giggling and no more flirtatious laughter that one generally gets to hear from a gang of high-heeled revealingly-dressed young women. Mr. Smooth seizes the opportunity, looks at the girls, raises his eyebrows, flashes a hint of a smile and speaks out, "Hello ladies! Why is it so quiet in here?" He speaks in a fresh, jovial tone, one that is devoid of sarcasm or sleaziness. I leave out a chuckle, but it results in a snorting sound as the air rushes out from my nostrils like when you are performing one of Baba Ramdev's breathing exercises. The teddy-bear-type-cuddly-plump girl in the black dress crinkles up her nose like it was brimming with snot and says out aloud, "Quiet? You guys are the ones who are quiet." Her voice comes out louder and shriller than she intends to. She immediately looks away, while the other two girls in the group giggle away for no reason as if they inhaled a jar of fucken laughing gas or something.
I try to smile, pretending to be cool and all. But no one notices me except that fucken drunkard who slouches his gooey body ridden with sweat, beer and god-knows-what all over me.
"Us, quiet? No chance. We'd juss been talkinabout how pretty the girls are, in Vegas," He winks at us three as if he were our friend right from kindergarten or something. He continues in his candid tone, "Especially that quiet one there in the pink dress," he speaks in a tone that is decent, yet bordering on the uncharted territories of kinkiness.
And with this I come to Step 3.
Step 3 : Picking the silent one
When you are surrounded by a group of boisterous girls, there will always be a shy and silent one, who wears a dress that reaches halfway towards her knee (unlike her friends whose dresses end halfway through their butts) and looks ahead with a mask of intelligence that conceals her inherent inferiority complex. The silent one may not necessarily be silent per se, and that is why spotting her is the tough part. But once you pick out the silent one, going in for the kill is much easier.
Mr. Smooth uses the oldest and the stalest pickup line ever invented by man. But heck, it works like a fucken ferrari on a racetrack! The silent one in the pink dress giggles - a short nervous twitter of a giggle as opposed to a boisterous whory one. Mr. Smooth and Ms.Pinky make eye contact which lasts for second or two more than what a normal I-am-talking-to-you eye contact lasts for. The lift chimes and that irritating 'ping' sound rattles inside my brain, bouncing off its hollow walls. The door opens and Mr. Smooth edges his way forward and walks side-by-side with Ms. Pinky as they head out of the elevators.
"Where'ya girls headed to?" He looks at the four of them one at a time. His eyes settle on Ms. Pinky and he adds, "Can I buy you a drin-..."
His voice trails off as that pack of four girls and a guy, moves away from us. I see Mr. Smooth's right hand hover over Ms. Pinky's back. The hand gently caresses the silky exterior of the pink dress at a part which arches inward with the girl's spine. The girl's muscles relax and Mr. Smooth's hands park themselves with conviction. The girl's left hand moves towards his back. The pair slowly begin to inch away from the rest of the three girls, almost involuntarily, almost reflexively. And as that group merges into the bustling crowd at the lobby, I see Mr. Smooth's right hand creep downward, ever so slowly, his fingers twitch and tingle in excitement, while his mind thinks about chapter 3 of "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Fuck Them".