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  CLOSING TIME

  When I’ve laid some groundwork, thwarted the HCIs, identified an eight or above on the classic scale, remembered her name, and vanquished the competition, it’s time for the close. Scoring in cities where last call is late, such as New York, Chicago, or Miami, is less about attraction and more about attrition. “Magic Hour” occurs between 2:30 and 3:30 a.m. and refers to the window of time when girls are just drunk, tired, or lonely enough to respond to guys’ advances. This is the perfect time to close because the girls who are left standing have essentially identified themselves as available for the taking. (Since bars close much earlier in LA, Magic Hour sadly does not exist here, and the entire process must be accelerated.) Regardless, the final dance has begun.

  When I attempt to take a girl home from the bar against her better judgment, I need to have a retort handy for any excuse she could possibly give to not hook up with me, and just wear her down. “You have to get up really early tomorrow? No problem, I’ll set an alarm.” “You don’t have your contact lens solution? We’ll buy some on the way home. At least you’re not wearing glasses.” Sometimes a girl will attempt to dissuade me by managing expectations: “Listen, Karo, I’ll go home with you, I guess, but I’m not gonna, like, do much. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.” Ladies, don’t worry about me being disappointed. I went out looking for a nine and I’m going home with a six. That ship has sailed.

  * * *

  PREMATURE ELATION

  One of the first rules of taking girls home from the bar is…actually take them home from the bar. One of my buddies was making out with this chick once when he decided the next logical move would be to try to take her pants off. When the girl stopped him, pointing out that they were indeed still at the bar, he uttered the classic response, “So?”

  * * *

  The thing is, when guys go out, we pretty much need to hook up. In case of a dry spell I have enough stock footage stored up to masturbate for six to ten weeks. But after that, sex is a biological requirement. When I approach that limit, I toss all my usual rules out the window and my motto becomes—to paraphrase the words of the esteemed sociologist 50 Cent—“Get Laid or Lie Tryin’.” If I’m trying to take a girl home from a bar that’s in kind of a sketchy neighborhood, but she’s worried about leaving her friend behind, I’ll continue to implore, “Come on, let’s get outta here.” And if my girl is like, “But ten dudes in biker jackets are hitting on my friend right now,” I’ll respond assuredly, “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  Despite every element of my game firing on all cylinders, when I have a girl wrapped around my finger, there is usually only one thing that can prevent it from happening: her friend. Because every girl has that one friend who either lost her cell phone or can’t find the other girls or got alcohol poisoning or has no place to stay. More potential sex has been squandered due to girls’ friends than I care to quantify. Meanwhile, I’m muttering under my breath, “Fuck your friend; let’s go!” But girls are loyal; they will not leave without their friend. And this is truly unacceptable. If I think there’s even a chance I might be getting some ass, I take charge. “Listen up,” I’ll say. “Here’s how we’re gonna get your friend home.” And then I lay out an overly elaborate plan designed to convince my target that her friend will be just fine going home with the bartender.

  And when I’ve finally convinced a chick to go home with me, I don’t take any chances—I leave immediately. I do not say goodbye to anyone. I’m like a phantom. Because I know that the longer my farewell lap, the greater the chance the girl is going to realize that this is a poor decision. I went to a party for a buddy of mine once and he introduced me to this really cute brunette. She wanted to go home with me, so I said, “Cool, let’s bounce.” Then she asked, “Don’t you want to say goodbye to your friend first?” “Uh, not really.” “But he’s leaving to teach English in southeast Asia. You’re not gonna see him for, like, two years.” And I just wanted to say, “Darling, the best going-away present I could possibly give him is banging you.”

  SEALING THE DEAL

  Once I’ve left the bar with a girl, there’s no time to breathe easy. Although I may be only minutes away from sealing the deal, I’m not in the clear yet. My new number-one priorities become getting home as quickly as possible and keeping the girl occupied. I don’t want her having any second thoughts about hooking up. If I’m in a cab with a girl and there’s a lull in the conversation, I put on a fucking show. I sing and dance and shake my keys around, hoping a shiny object will distract her while I yell at the cabbie to “Drive—for the love of God, drive!”

  I was in a cab home with this girl once, and everything was going great, and then the cab got into a huge head-on collision. No one was injured, thankfully, but the two cars were totaled and the girl was really shaken up. She said, “Oh my God. I can’t believe that just happened. Can you take me home?” And I was like, “Of course. I mean, I thought that’s what we were doing in the first place.” And she said, “No, not like that. I mean can you help me get home. My head is spinning. Isn’t yours?” And I wanted to reply, “Of course, a little. But my cock is fine.” Instead, I said, “Yeah, I’m pretty freaked out too. I don’t think either of us should be alone.”

  When I make it back to a girl’s place, though, there is one situation that is an absolute worst-case scenario: if she has a pet. Not because I’m allergic, but because I fucking hate all animals. I’m sorry, but I don’t care if it’s a dog or a cat or a bird or a gerbil—get it out of my fucking face. It’s not normal for people to have animals running around their house. It smells and it’s gross and I don’t give a shit what you named it after. And no, a cat isn’t the cleanest animal there is—it shits in a fucking box in the kitchen! Get it away from me! I hate animals. I can barely stand humans.

  * * *

  TERMINOLOGY

  “Co-opetition” is an economics term meaning cooperative competition. It comes into play when I bring a girl back to her apartment only to find that the girl’s roommate has also brought a random dude home. Although this guy would represent my enemy at the bar, both men immediately recognize the need to work together in this situation and communicate a détente via wink or head nod. When the girls go to the kitchen or bathroom together, the two males dispense with pleasantries and get down to strategy. The guy handbook generally calls for some sort of pick play to be run where one guy distracts his girl long enough for the other guy to lure his girl into the bedroom. When implemented correctly, co-opetition can result in the highly desired “win-win situation.”

  * * *

  Going back to my place involves a different set of obstacles and strategies. For instance, on more than one occasion I’ve brought a girl back to my apartment to drink wine only to discover that I have absolutely no idea how to open the bottle. And when at long last we finally make it into my bedroom, and everything is all set, I wait for the girl to go to the bathroom, then go into her purse and shut off her cell phone. That way, later, when we’re about to have sex and she says, “I wonder if my friend got home from the bar OK,” I can just say, “Well, she never called so I’m sure everything is fine!”

  There was a special time in my life when a very rare scenario occurred: I got laid early on a weekend night, like around 11 p.m., and then the girl left. When this happened, there was really only one thing I could do: shower up and head back out. I can’t tell you what an exhilarating sensation it is to kick game knowing that you’ve already scored. There’s no pressure; anything that happens is just a bonus. I felt invincible—like when you get the Starman in Mario Bros., except I didn’t start blinking. I did, however, start thinking. If I were to hook up again, that’d be two girls, in one night, at separate times; that’s unbelievable! Then I hit on every girl I saw, got shot down like Duck Hunt, and went home by myself before passing out while masturbating. Yup, I woke up in the morning with tissues stuck inside the waistband of my boxers like a Kleenex holster.

 
Some guys have complained to me that documenting stories like this, and in general revealing our tricks of the trade, both makes us look bad and destroys our competitive advantage. I disagree. On the contrary, I believe that the more informed a woman is, the more approachable she becomes. Besides, flirting really isn’t about trickery or subterfuge. Chicks aren’t stupid; they know what we’re doing for the most part. It’s all a carefully choreographed dance that girls choose to engage in willingly. After all, it takes two to play this game.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE NAKED TRUCE

  Sex is a part of nature. I go along with nature.

  MARILYN MONROE

  One-night stands have traditionally been stigmatized as inappropriate sexual behavior. But as our generation gets married later and stays single longer, there are certain, well, needs that have to be met. Whether it’s an inebriated, emotionless encounter or a longer-term, casual hook-up, getting laid is no longer something to be ashamed of. In fact, when done with the right person (i.e., someone with more important things to do than worry about why you didn’t call the next day, or month) sex is something to be proud of—a stress-relieving experience between two consenting adults and an endless source of barroom tales for a guy to share with his friends. For happily single men and women approaching thirty, hooking up is less about one party taking advantage of the other, and more about a mutual desire to blow off some steam. This tacit agreement to give in to our basest instincts while pledging to remain unattached is the naked truce. From late-night booty texts to morning-after escapades, the quest to lay pipe then escape unscathed occupies the majority of our time and energy. Is it worth it? Is mindless and often unsatisfying sex better than no sex at all? Single people ponder these dilemmas with each other, though often the answer to these questions is simply another question: “Wanna get out of here?”

  GREAT EXPECTATIONS

  Since time immemorial, the phrase “Let’s go back to my place and watch a movie” has been code for “Let’s have sex within the next forty to fifty minutes.” To this day, my Netflix account is simply a list of films I’ve only seen half of. My pants come off and I’m like, “OK, send this one back to the top of the queue!” The first time a girl goes home with a guy, she’ll often try to be stern and lay down the law as to how far the hook-up is gonna go. One of my all-time favorite scenarios occurs when I’ve been hitting on a girl all night and throwing every piece of game I have at her. When I finally get her home, and we start hooking up, she pauses, looks at me, and whispers, “Just so you know, I’m not sleeping with you.” But instead of being dejected, I’m elated because now I know at least I’m getting a blow job.

  When a guy and girl are casually hooking up, it is expected that each encounter should build on the previous one. If you let me dabble in your pants last time, I expect you to dabble in mine this time. One of the most confusing situations for a guy is when a girl who has previously gone down on him will now barely touch him. Our brains cannot process this reversal of fortune. The whole reason I called you was because I knew that, even in the worst-case scenario, I’d at least be getting head. Now you’re saying I should take you to dinner? I’m not following.

  This same line of reasoning can be applied to sex once the relationship has made it that far. It’s all about momentum. The first go-round you often stick to standard missionary. The second time, girl-on-top gets thrown into the mix. The third stint introduces doggie, and so forth. Eventually you start anticipating your partner’s moves to the point where it almost becomes boring. This is called “marriage.”

  * * *

  FUN FACT

  If a man takes a woman’s virginity, or gives her her first orgasm, he is entitled to sleep with her for the rest of his life.

  * * *

  The go-to excuse for women who want to put the brakes on a hook-up is, of course, menstruation. It’s like Kryptonite to my penis. A lot has been said about women faking orgasms. Eh, I’m not that impressed. To me, a woman’s true power lies in her ability to fake a period. If a girl wants to stop me dead in my tracks, all she has to do is say the word “period.” Plus, chicks can use the same excuse over and over again because we’re never going to call them out on it. I had a girl pull the P-card on me twice only three weeks apart. I started to think that either she didn’t want to sleep with me or I didn’t pay very good attention in high school health class.

  BE PREPARED

  For bachelors, preparedness begins at home. Impeccable personal hygiene is a must to ensure success with the ladies. Which is why I always trim downstairs. This area needs to be as well-groomed and welcoming as possible. In fact, I shave my boys with the same buzzer I use to shave my face. I’m not sure why women shudder when I admit this. What’s the big deal? Those are the two cleanest parts of my body. Personal grooming is a two-way street, however. Ladies, I don’t care what you read in Cosmo or saw on Sex and the City. When in doubt, trim. This is what sophisticated, single men prefer. I have never, ever heard a guy complain to me that a girl he hooked up with had too little hair down there. This ain’t 1968.

  Music is another key component to a proper naked powwow—not only because it sets the mood but also because it muffles moans and thus discourages inhibition. Even if it’s not the music you listen to on a daily basis, skilled bachelors maintain dedicated playlists for the right occasions—set to shuffle and repeat all. For instance, I mostly listen to hip hop and Top 40, but the two most-played artists on my iTunes are Jack Johnson and John Legend. And I’ve never listened to either of them alone, clothed, or sober.

  * * *

  MOOD MUSIC

  Here are some actual albums from my iTunes library to serve as examples of what to play and what not to play when entertaining a woman in bed.

  YES

  John Legend, Once Again

  Jack Johnson, Brushfire Fairytales

  Bob Marley, Legend

  Common, Like Water for Chocolate

  NO!

  Snoop Dogg, Doggystyle

  Rage Against the Machine, Evil Empire

  DMX, It’s Dark and Hell Is Hot

  Avenue Q, Original Broadway Cast Soundtrack

  * * *

  If I’m on tour or on vacation, I still remain diligent. I’ve learned that I often lose my hotel key, and the time it takes to request a replacement is ample time for a girl to get cold feet. When I check in, I always request a second key and leave it in an envelope at the front desk for a “friend”—that friend being drunk me five hours later. Also, though it seems counterintuitive, a suite or luxurious room is not always the best bet. Oftentimes I simply request the smallest room with one big bed. I call it the “nowhere to go but bang” option.

  My personal favorite move is to go to the bathroom as soon as we get back to my place, take off my belt, and hide it in the bathtub. In my entire history of being sexually active, no girl has ever picked up on it. The brilliance of this is that it helps eliminate barriers to entry. If a girl is contemplating touching my junk, I don’t want any possible roadblocks standing in her way, belt included.

  PROTECTION

  Recently I was using the unisex bathroom in an office building when I noticed there was a twenty-five-cent tampon dispenser on the wall. Fair enough—chicks need that shit. But right next to it was a twenty-five-cent condom dispenser. I mean, I guess you can argue that both tampons and condoms can be needed in an emergency. But that really all depends on your definition of “emergency.”

  Condoms are a very necessary evil, and I carry them whenever I leave the house after dusk. Discretion is always paramount, however. For instance, if I take a girl home from the bar, even if we go back to her place, it’s expected that I’ll have a condom. What respectable single guy wouldn’t? But it’s best not to reveal how respectable you are too soon. I was once at a cocktail party, hitting on the chick sitting next to me on the sofa. When I went to grab my phone out of my pocket, a condom fell out too. The girl looked at me with such disdain as the condom just sat between u
s for a moment, taunting me. I had little use for it that night.

  * * *

  SHOPPING GUIDE

  Purchasing condoms is embarrassing enough without having to stand there reading each label. For years, I’ve tried to find a type that actually felt somewhat enjoyable, which inevitably means experimenting with ones that are less effective. First I tried extra strength, but I didn’t like those, so then I tried extra sensitive, then ultra comfort, ultimate feeling, enhanced pleasure, high sensation, extra thin, ultra thin, and finally ones that I’m pretty sure came with a warning on the package that read: “Not for use with vagina.”

  * * *

  I was going through security at LAX once and a TSA worker was reminding travelers to remove all coins, keys, and credit cards from their pockets. When it was my turn, the guy repeated his mantra, only this time he said, “Please remove all coins, keys, credit cards, and condoms from your pockets.” I did a double take. First of all, can condoms actually set off the metal detector? Second of all—and more importantly—do I just look like the kind of dude who carries condoms onto an airplane? Granted, that was the look I was going for, but I didn’t think I could pull it off. It was like being put on a watch list for the mile-high club.

  Despite the bother of choosing, buying, and carrying condoms, I always practice safe sex. But I still hate it. I lose all sensation. I put a condom on and all of a sudden I’m in that Gatorade commercial. I’m like, “Is it in you?” And there’s nothing worse than thinking I’m fucking, only to look down to see that I’m actually penetrating the space between the girl’s ass and the mattress. Sometimes it just happens. I can’t tell, especially if they’re nice sheets. When I hook up with a girl and the next day my friend asks me how the sex was, I brag, “The thread count was fantastic.”