The Game

woman’s pants before she starts thinking about what’s in his pants is going to fail. And most men fall into this category. Sasha does. I do. We can’t help it: It’s our nature.
    Mystery calls it dynamic social homeostasis. We are constantly buffeted about by, on one hand, our overwhelming desire to have sex with a girl and, on the other, the need to protect ourselves when approaching. The reason this fear exists, he says, is because we are wired evolutionarily for a tribal existence, where everyone in the community knows when a man is rejected bya woman. He is then ostracized and his genes, as Mystery puts it, are unapologetically weeded out of existence.
    As I approached, I tried to push the fear out of my chest and rationally assess the situation. Sasha’s problem was his body position. Both women were facing the bar, and he had approached from behind. So they had to turn around to respond.

    But if they wanted to get rid of him, all they had to do was to turn back toward the bar, and he’d be shut out.

    I looked back. Mystery and the other two students were watching me as I approached. I had to work the angles right. So I came in from the left side of the bar, next to the black-haired girl—the obstacle, as Mystery would say.

    “Hi,” I rasped. I cleared my throat. “I’m the friend Sasha was telling you about. So what clubs did you recommend?”
    I could sense a silent sigh of relief from all parties that someone had come in to make things less awkward.
    “Well, Reka is a fun place for dinner,” the black-haired girl said. “And along the waterfront there are some great boats, like Lukas, Kruz, and Exil. Underground and Ra are fun too, though they’re not the kinds of places I go to.”
    “Hey, as long as we’re talking, I want to get your opinion on something.” I was on familiar ground now. “Do you think spells work?”
    By now, I was getting used to telling the spells opener—a story about a friend who fell in love with a woman after she surreptitiously cast an attraction spell on him. So while my mouth moved, my brain thought strategy. I needed to reposition myself next to the Bo Derek blonde. Yes, I was going to steal my student’s girl. It’s not like he had a chance with her anyway.
    When I finished, I said, “I’m asking because I never believed in that stuff before, but I had an amazing experience recently. Here”—I addressed the blonde—“let me show you something.”
    I maneuvered myself around to the other side of their stools, so that I was next to my target.

    Now that I was one-on-one with her, I still needed to sit down; otherwise she’d eventually get uncomfortable with me lurking over her. However, there weren’t any open stools, so I’d have to improvise.
    “Give me your hands,” I told her, “and stand up for a moment.” As soon as she stood, I wheeled around behind her and slid into her seat. Now I was finally in the set, and she was lurking awkwardly on the outside. This was the science of approaching perfectly executed, like a good game of chess.

    “I just stole your chair,” I laughed.
    She smiled and punched me teasingly in the arm. The game had begun.
    “I’m just kidding,” I continued. “Stay close. We’ll try an ESP experiment. But I can only stay for a moment. Then you can have your chair back.”
    Even though I guessed her number wrong (it was ten), she still enjoyed the process. As we talked afterward, Mystery walked up to Sasha and toldhim to keep the black-haired woman occupied so she wouldn’t pull my target away.
    Marko was right: The girls were gorgeous here. They were also extremely bright and, much to my relief, spoke better English than I did. I truly enjoyed listening to this girl; she was captivating, well-read, and had an MBA.
    When it came time to leave, I told her it would be great to see her again before I left. She pulled a pen from her purse and gave me her phone number. I could feel Mystery’s approval—and the students’ acceptance. Style was the real deal.
    Sasha was still talking to the black-haired girl, so I whispered in his ear, “Tell her we have to go, and ask for her e-mail.” He did and, lo and behold, she gave it to him.
    We rejoined the group and left the café. Sasha was a new man. Flushed with excitement, he skipped down the street like a little boy, singing in Serbian. He was being, in his own awkward way, himself. He’d never gotten a girl’s e-mail address before.
    “I’m so happy,”