The Game

Writing.” I pulled out a piece of lined notebook paper covered from top to bottom with my chicken scratching. It was the only poem I’ve ever attempted in my life. It was written in eleventh grade, and I never showed it to anyone. However, it was the answer to my question.
SEXUAL FRUSTRATION
    BY NEIL STRAUSS

    The only reason you go out,
The only objective in mind,
A glimpse of a familiar pair
Of legs on a busy street or
A squeeze from a female who
You can only call your friend.

    A scoreless night fosters hostility.
A scoreless weekend breeds animosity.
Through red eyes all the world is seen,
Angry at friends and family for no
Reason that they can perceive.
Only you know why you are so mad.

    There is the ‘just friends’ one who you’ve
Known for so long, who respects you
So much that you can’t do what you want.
And she no longer bothers to put on her
False personality and flirt because she thinks
You like her for who she is when what you
Liked about her was her flirtatiousness.
    When your own hand becomes your best lover,
When your life-giving fertilizer is wasted
In a Kleenex and flushed down the toilet
You wonder when you are going to stop
Thinking about what could have happened
That night when you almost got somewhere.

    There is the coy one who smiles
And looks like she wants to meet you,
But you can’t work up the nerve to talk.
So instead she will become one of your nighttime
Fantasies, where you could have but didn’t.
Your hand will be substituted for hers.

    When you neglect work and meaningful activities,
When you neglect the ones who really love you,
For a shot at a target that you rarely hit.
Does everyone get lucky with women but you,
Or do females just not want it as bad as you do?
    In the decade since I’d written that poem, nothing had changed. I still couldn’t write poetry. And, more important, I still felt the same way. Perhaps signing up for Mystery’s workshop had been an intelligent decision. After all, I was doing something proactive about my lameness.
    Even the wise man dwells in the fool’s paradise.

On the last night of the workshop, Mystery and Sin took us to a bar called the Saddle Ranch, a country-themed meat market on the Sunset Strip. I’d been there before—not to pick up women, but to ride the mechanical bull. One of my goals in Los Angeles was to master the machine at its fastest setting. But not today. After three consecutive nights of going out until 2:00 A.M. and then breaking down approaches with Mystery and the other students far beyond the allotted half-hour, I was wiped out.
    Within minutes, however, our tireless professor of pickup was at the bar, making out with a loud, tipsy girl who kept trying to steal his scarf. Watching Mystery work, I noticed that he used the exact same openers, routines, and lines—and got a phone number or a tongue down nearly every time, even if the woman was with a boyfriend. I’d never seen anything like it. Sometimes a woman he was talking to was even moved to tears.
    As I walked toward the mechanical bull ring, feeling foolish in a red cowboy hat Mystery had insisted I wear, I saw a girl with long black hair, a formfitting sweater, and tan legs sticking out of a ruffled skirt. She was talking animatedly to two guys, bouncing around them like a cartoon character.
    One second. Two seconds. Three.
    “Hey, looks like the party’s over here.” I spoke to the guys, then turned to face the girl. I stuttered for a moment. I knew the next line—Mystery had been pushing it on me all weekend—but I’d been dreading using it.
    “If…if I wasn’t gay, you’d be so mine.”
    A huge smile spread across her face. “I like your hat,” she screeched, grabbing the brim.
    I guess peacocking did work. “Hey, now,” I told her, repeating a line I had heard Mystery use earlier. “Hands off the merchandise.”
    She responded by throwing her arms around me and telling me I was fun. Every ounce of fear evaporated with her acceptance. The secret to meeting women, I realized, is simply knowing what to say, and when and how to say it.
    “How do you all know each other?” I asked.
    “I just met them,” she said. “My name is Elonova.” She curtseyed clumsily.
    I took that as an IOI.
    I showed Elonova an ESP trick Mystery had taught me earlier that evening, in which I guessed a number she was thinking between one and ten (hint: it’s almost always seven), and she clapped her hands together gleefully. The guys, in the presence of my