I hate buses. At present, it’s 8:19am on a gloomy Boston morning. I’ve just boarded the 8:10 bus back to Newburyport (where I live) an entire day later than expected. It’s a nice bus and it smells like fresh plastic, but I’m dirty, sweaty, tired, hungover, and in the same yellow polo and blue trousers I was in when I left Georgetown for the Washington/Dulles International Airport to head home two days ago. The story of my tardy arrival, however, is worth the trouble of the bus.
This weekend, we did a bootcamp in Washington DC and it was amazing. A brilliant experience was had by all and lots of lives were forever changed. As that adventure came to a close, I celebrated it per my usual routine: Airport home. After going through security at Dulles, I had a bit of a wander through the long concourse of terminals B and C, looking in the stores and halfheartedly replying to the conversation-starved salespeople at Brooks Brothers and Solstice who, for some reason, always seem convinced I’m going to buy something. I usually am.
On my stroll, I passed a little wine bar that began to plant the subconscious seeds of desire in my brain and got me thinking about a nice, cold glass of champagne. Actually, it got me thinking about a case of champagne, but who’s counting besides Rachel, the black, 20-something behind the bar at Vino Volo. Deciding champagne was a bit ambitious (and no less pretentious) at 2:30 in the afternoon on a Monday, I ordered a glass of California Chardonnay (aged in metal casks = gross) after increasing the population of the restaurant 100% with my presence. The place was lonely but, as is wont to happen when a guy like me makes his mark at an establishment, the babes soon started rolling in.
And when I say babes, I mean two single 40+ BBWs. If you don’t know what a BBW is, it’s probably for the best. Just keep reading.
The two women sat separately at the bar, taking up quite a bit of space (I am not saying this to be rude, only because it becomes logistically relevant in the near future) and having conversations about the first’s trip to India for a detox on her lonesome and the second’s Idon’treallyknowwhatbecauseIwasn’tlistening. About 8 minutes into my Chard, a very attractive woman of about 28 steps into the enclosed bar-area looking like she just stepped off of a plane from Monaco. In fact, she actually just stepped off of the plane from Tuscany and was on her way back to San Diego. A few of you may be able to make aesthetic inferences with that knowledge.
The first thing I thought when the tall, slender brunette with the white linen pants, tasteful, black satin tubetop and thatched fedora started moving towards the bar was “Fuck. My bag is leaning up against the chair next to me. She’ll never sit there. How do I move it without making it excruciatingly obvious what my intentions are??” Realistically, I didn’t give a shit about my busty midwives, so, I just kicked it over, gave it one of those ‘What demon possesses you that you may move of your own volition” looks, leaned over and moved it to the other side of my chair. Smooth as butta.
She didn’t end up sitting next to me anyway, but she only sat one seat away, which is practically perfect in every way. After thinking for a bit about it (because, I really do consider whether or not I want to interact with someone on account of my timeframe and mental capacity at that moment; After bootcamps I’m really tuckered and often just want to be in my own head for a bit), I decided that I had an entire hour and it would be silly for me to not have a go at this woman who, unbeknownst to her, had sat herself down next to the Best New Master Pickup Artist of 2010.
A is for Approach
I opened situationally and it was a hit. Rachel, the sommelier, had brought three “flights” (three small tastes of wine) to each of the three women sitting at the bar. I only had one glass, opting for quantity over quality: Generally a terrible mantra in a wine bar. Taking a look around, I readied myself and then rehearsed my opener in my head (as I knew it was going to be a bit tricky), and casually announced it to the room.
“Well, we’ve got four women, ten glasses of wine, and me. I like these odds.”
This is not only a hilarious opener that made all the women giggle, but quite a nice bit of foreshadowing, as well.
B is for Banter
All laughed, but I only turned to one to continue the conversation, obviously. She and I spoke about where she was coming from and where I was going to, etc, etc. It was actually fairly standard human banter, rather than all the crazy “This ring means you like it in the butt” or whatever PUA banter shit happens. What I did, however, was I made very strong eye contact and smiled in a way that made her feel like a million bucks. When your nonverbal communication is functioning at full, what you say matters very little. Remember only 13% of what you communicate to women has to do with the words coming out of your mouth.
Of course, I did tease her and was generally charming and clever, but I was interrupted by the sommelier returning and encouraging me to continue my conversation about the origins of my job. I had begun telling her about the bootcamps and now, I could very plainly see, she was aware of the level of flirting going on between myself and the brunette and was trying to spoil it.
What a cunt.
But, it’s either a win, loss, or tie in life, so I reframed the “Pick Up Artist” into the “Dating Coach” to see what would happen. She bit. I was stoked.
“OMG. I TOTALLY need your help. Do you help women too?” No, but yes, but not professionally, etc.
This is a pretty common reaction when I tell girls I’m a dating coach for the ABCs of Attraction, so I navigated the conversation by changing it into me qualifying her about the kind of guys she dates. “So, you’d say you’re the fun one in the relationship most of the time? What do you do when you meet someone that’s more fun than you? Is that a threat? Do you find being with someone intelligent challenges you more to be a better lover?”
All of these were not only amusing her, but intriguing her, which is generally how I like to create bonds when I know I only have a short period of time with a girl. Attraction is nice, but can fizzle over a period of time without contact, and it can also be extinguished by self-destructive girls surprised at how much they actually like you. However, attraction AND intrigue is unbiased and almost always perpetually permeating.
C is for Comfort
After the initial banter and qualifying questions, we started talking about her dating history, this threw us right into C with the easy application of some Comfort Leading Questions like “What’s the craziest thing you’e ever done for a guy?” and, since we were already sitting down, she was both emotionally and physically comfortable. This was all a very simple transition and was easy to maintain, as she was talkative and interested in the subject. I got to learn about her quite quickly, but my flight was minutes away from boarding, so I had to pay the bill and head off to my gate.
D is for Direct Interest
After paying, I told her that if I was ever in San Diego, we ought to hook up and grab a drink and for her to give me her number. It was very simple and, when you’ve established that level of comfort and rapport, the number is barely even an afterthought. Using Enthusiasm and Persistence, I got her number, we hugged and I left for my gate. The End.
D is for Delay
I practically run to my gate to find that I’ve been delayed another 2 hours. Holy crap, Jetblue.
My Modus Operandi in a situation like this is to find the nearest bar and start washing away the time with either Gin & Tonics or Newcastle. This occasion was no exception other than I had the very clever idea to find out what my little brunette was doing. So, without a thought, I texted her. The texts are below and I’ll spare you line by line explanation (see my expert Text to Sex program) because we’re already 1500 words in and I still have quite a ways to go.
So, a few things: You can see I’m using Confidence, Dominance, and Persistence to line up the meeting as outlined in our Text to Sex program.
As for baits, I’m using tons of questions to get her responsive and then a bit of teasing (I actually didn’t think there was a Z gate, as I was at B). When she starts telling me that Subway is the place to be, I have to tease her a bit to spike her BT and then solidify the meetup by arranging drinks in advance, this is almost kind of leverage to get her over but, in this case, anything is better than trying to convince her to join me, which is where a lot of guys falter. I give her directions, order her drink and tell her to come. It’s just as simple as that.
10 minutes later, she’s sitting across from me and we’re back on track. This time, her wine has settled in, I’ve had a Newcastle and we’re using sexually charged Banter to continue through D. This is when the shit-tests start rolling in (She’s thinking; “If I’m going to seriously flirt with this guy, I need to know it’s worth it.”).
I’m getting questions about my age followed by “Aw, that’s adorable” as I find out she’s NOT 28, but she’s 36: 10 years older than me. I respond my talking about how she’s just hit her sexual peak and it must be tough with older guys, as they’re well past their prime.
She gets introspective and then gives me the look. Boom.
We’re flirting like crazy now. At this point, we’re teasing each other a ton. There’s a lot more kino and she’s very clearly hit the hook point (the point at which she would rather spend time with me than be by herself or with someone else). Remembering we only have an hour until her flight leaves, she giggles and tells me that I’m coming back on the train with her to Gate Z to keep her company. Bam.
Wait. There really is a Gate Z? Wait. You really DID take a train to get here?
After the second drink, we have about 25 minutes until her flight takes off, so I pay the bill and we move quickly down the terminal towards the train. We’re still laughing and playing around with each other and she starts fake yelling at me while we’re hustling to the train, making everyone look over at me like I’m an asshat. Incredible.
“You’re SERIOUSLY going to yell at me about that? It’s a Microwave, Gareth, not a baby. I didn’t put a fork in our BABY!”
People are looking at me like I’m insane, so I’ve gotta counter. Mind you, this is all happening as we’re practically running to the train.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I don’t have time for this shit. If this is going to be another repeat of Acapulco, I’m going home right now. I don’t care how expensive this goddamn cruise was. I’m done. DONE!”
We finally get to the train and have a laugh. I get my bearings because she’s not paying any attention to any logistical details at all. I see that Gate Z is the next stop and the train starts moving. The momentum of the train, plus two Jack and Sprites causes her to stumble forward into me, I wrap my arms around her, pull her close and say “Woah. Woah. Slow down, there, drunkie. I’m not that kind of guy.”
I have her firmly grasped and she blushes, shaking me off and telling me that it was an accident and she lost her balance. However, the way she looked at me told me that it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant experience and the way she let her fingers slide off of me told me she was not particularly into the idea of letting go (the Power of Kino!). It was on.
It was at this point I decided I needed to make this work.
We hopped off the train (in the middle of fucking nowhere) and practically ran to her gate. She was saying “If my flight is delayed, too, I’m gonna be so pissed haha” and just as we rounded the corner, we saw the line from the gate counter which signaled there was a type of delay that was causing people to rebook their flights. She stopped in her tracks, cast a dramatic look (as beautiful women are wont to do), uttered an expletive and we both walked slowly to the line. Her flight had been delayed two hours. Now, she was going to miss her connecting flight in North Carolina.
She. Was. Pissed.
“What the fuck? What. the. fuck. Now, I’m gonna miss my connecting flight. What the hell kind of shit is this??” etc etc etc unbearably etc
We wait in line and I calm her down. Don’t tell a woman to calm down, help her calm down.
I say that we’ll check it out and see what we can do. They always have other options and the activity of changing flights and rebooking is never that hard. She tries to get uppity and is ignoring my calm words, so I grab her by the shoulders and look her in the eye.
“STOP.” I tell her, firmly.
She’s a bit flabberghasted that I’ve raised my voice. I lower it again to barely a whisper, and look directly into her eyes. “We’ll do everything we can, but there’s no sense in being worked up about it. You’re going to be stuck in this situation whether or not you feel good, so let’s try to make it better.”
She just looks at me in a kind of “Wait.. are you demonstrating serious manliness right now?” I was.
It was our turn in line and I let her talk to the little mexican woman behind the counter, but as soon as she opened her mouth, it was an avalanche of “What the hell is this airline’s problem?” and “What the hell are you going to do for me?”
As soon as I realized it was going south, I stopped her, took her boarding passes out of her hand and literally sent her away with a pat on the butt, telling her I’d handle it.
Serious James Bond shit.
I spoke to the woman about the options, basically coming to the conclusion that there was no other option than to delay her flight from Dulles to North Carolina until 6am so that she could make a flight to San Diego without spending 6+ hours in the NC airport. While she rattled on her discontent slightly off to the side of the gate attendant’s desk, I made all efforts to ask her if she was alright with that, while I began my own little scheme.
She had shown that she understood it was her only option, so I went ahead and booked that flight for her and spent a little bit more time explaining what was happening and what was going on, making sure I got as much information about her two flights and the location of luggage from the gate attendant. After writing it all down, I went back to explain what was going on to my Italian princess who was, in almost every sense of the words, acting out the title. I explained to her that we were going to walk back over to my flight while I explained what was going on, as I was running out of time before my own takeoff.
We started walking back to the beloved train while she bitched about her flight. She bitched and bitched and bitched. Down the hallway she bitched. Around the corner she bitched. In fact, when we finally got to the escalator that took us down to the train, I had one of my rare-but-powerful masculine thoughts pop into my head.
I needed to shut her up. So, I kissed her.
D is DEFINITELY for Romance
Though, the first kiss on the escalator wasn’t exact the ideal romantic setting any woman hopes for, it was exactly what she needed to relax and enjoy the moment. I simply looked at her, grabbed her and kissed her. I felt like Cary Grant. She immediately wrapped her arms around each other, only pulling away to get off the escalator without falling to the ground in a pile of limbs. We held hands and kissed from that point forward. The train was lovey-dovey kissing; feeling each other out to see how one another liked to be treated. The hallways to the gates were quick, passionate and lustful kisses tasting of the future, when we could release the pent-up tension alone, in bed, somewhere.
When we arrived at my gate, we found that my flight had been delayed another 3 hours or something ridiculous (I don’t remember the specifics, as I already realized exactly what was going to happen). We had an uproarious fit of laughter at our misfortune and then I directed us to another nearby Mexican restaurant where we ordered margaritas and I hopped on the horn to finalize my plan.
E is for Extract and Escalate.
Logistics will be the death of you, so I had to do everything I could to make sure they were handled. I stepped out while she waited for drinks to arrive and immediately called JetBlue to see what time flights started the next day.
Here’s me running logistics (remember beginner’s think what, the average think how, but experts think WHERE):
“Hello, JetBlue? Could I get one around 6am? I could? Amazing. I’ve been delayed so many times today… can you reschedule me? It’ll cost more? How much? Okay, that’s fine. Here’s my card number… 5:30am? Perfect. Thank you. Have a nice day. Hi, this is Gareth Jones calling from Dulles Airport, I was wondering if you guys had rooms available tonight. Just one bed. Great. How much is that? And if I book through priceline or another partner, would that get me a discount? Oh, you DO have some coupons there? That would be amazing. So how much would it be for the two of us? No, just one room. Two Adults. And that’s with the discount? Amazing. We’ll be there in about an hour. Yes, Gareth Jones plus guest. Thank you.”
I walked back to the girl and explained that my company has rescheduled my flight (thanks, JT!) and that I’m leaving at the same time she is. She laughed a bit and reflected on the irony over her margarita and then I told her where her bags were and that our plan was to go get the bags and take a taxi to the Whatever, Virginia Four Points Sheraton, or wherever we were going. She told me she hadn’t booked a room or anything, and I told her I took care of it. They were expecting us.
She gave me an impressed and aroused look. Boom.
The rest of the story is pretty obvious and there’s not too much reason to wax on poetically past 3,300 words: We retrieved her bags, caught a cab to the hotel, went up to the room and I immediately threw her on the bed and tore all her clothes off.
It was all fairly straightforward from there; we spent about two hours in bed and then showered together. After we showered, we went down and had dinner in the restaurant, came back upstairs and went immediately to bed to wake up at 3am to get to the airport for our 5:30am flights.
At security, we parted ways with a kiss, but I knew we wouldn’t speak again. This was an adventure and it was meant to be nothing but. That being said, it was a very, very lovely adventure.
Pardon me for looking so drunk (and sweaty):
