Elvis was an important teacher for me; he taught me how to couples-dance to mid-tempo songs and how to roll spliffs - without him you might have had to put up with another nickname. The Dread Pirate What-A-Mess, for example.
When I was a wee girleen and pining over some young man, Elvis saw my mental agony and gave me this advice:
1. The second you know you like a boy in a special way, make a pass at him.
2. When you make the pass at him, propose a specific yet generic activity for the close future that involves a change of location.
3. Then chat, and wait for him to initiate the sexiness so he feels the thrill of the chase.
So that sort of scenario would go: “Hi! My name’s Mistress La Spliffe! What’s yours?” (Response) “Say, would you like to get a coffee with me in Yorkville in 20 minutes?” (Response) (Activity+chat) "Why . . . why . . . alright."
Elvis’s rationale was that by making a pass right away, you had no time for nervousness, excessive horniness, disproportionate disappointment or disproportionate joy. In proposing a specific activity in a new locale, conditions make the passee more likely to say yes, as it gives them the chance to start thinking of you in detailed sexual terms over a low pressure activity in a low pressure place. Finally, Elvis pointed out most people will hit/fall for anything if they think it’s their own idea, so I should concentrate on the chatting to inform myself whether or not I in fact and indeed wanted to be hit/fell for.
Seems simple, no? He taught me that when I was fourteen; if I’d followed it more often I’d probably be a full time lovin’ quarterback by now, as my attempts were usually successful. So here’s my question: if men are supposed to be the seducers, why do they fuck up the formula time after time after time? Why do they get drunk, try to kiss you out of the blue, and then get sulky when you react with reflexive disgust? Why do they say things like “uh, you wanna do something some time?” It’s bugging me today because yesterday was the first time in a long time a man actually got the formula right.
Man: (approaching Mistress La Spliffe as she looks at World Cup schedual at the gym) What team are you following?
Spliffe: England. But they’re going to lose.
Man: Let me introduce myself. I’m Curt.
Spliffe: Hi, Curt. I’m Mistress La Spliffe.
Man: Do you want to play racquetball?
Spliffe: No, sorry, I have a bum knee.
Man: Ah. I’ve seen you around and I think you’re really pretty. Are you single?
Spliffe: No. But thanks for asking.
Man: Just thought I’d try . . .
How fucking hard is that? I had to say no, but I wasn’t creeped out. If I hadn’t had to say no, I probably wouldn’t have, though this man wasn’t my type. And you know what else? He didn’t stare at my tits while he said it. Take notes, male readers. This sort of shit could really cut down cross-gender strife and resentment. Elvis was beating women off with a shitty stick until he settled down with the Vermeer Lady, and you never heard him bad-mouthing women because he understood what they wanted and they understood what he wanted.
Take notes female readers, too. We have a greater propensity to build castles in the sky with men we’ve never even given the opportunity of thinking dirty about us, and then if they don’t materialize we end up hating on the whole gender for disappointing us. And now our physical/verbal communication is so bad, so divorced from reality, people are turning en masse to internet dating, taking out all the variables of excitement and hormones and straight animal attraction – that marvellous first thirty seconds when you look at someone and say to yourself, “YES. Hmm. I think I’ll try coffee this time.”