Only herald to the gaudy spring

I met Amelia at a coffee house, but in a faint, odd echo of thing with Paula last year (remember that I met with Paula right after meeting Ella, just as I am meeting Amelia a few days after meeting Catherine), we can't get the WiFi to work.  Darn.  Have to go to her apartment.

Because, ridiculous as it seems, Amelia sounded cute on the phone -- and she is in fact very cute.  And she's smarter than she sounded on the phone.  She's from Hong Kong and her English pronunciation isn't very good, but her written English is better than mine.

And was I prepped.  I stayed up late last night reading a book on "seduction".

Seduction nowadays doesn't mean flowers and wine -- it's a code word referring to a loose-knit community of guys who called themselves pickup-artists ("PUAs" for short) or "playahs".  Carlos is one of them and it's really a scuzzy bunch.  They're basically amateur confidence tricksters, only instead of scamming morons out of money, they are scamming insecure women out of sex.

The book wasn't bad, really.  Its basic point -- a point a lot of women on this blog have made to me -- is that women want an alpha male.  They want a man who acts like a man, not one who acts as he would want a man to act if he himself were a woman.

For example, a man likes a woman who is agreeable and open and cheerful -- so when he wants a woman to like him, he acts agreeable and open and cheerful.  Sensible, right?  Wrong.

George Bernard Shaw said, "Do not do unto others as you would expect they should do unto you. Their tastes may not be the same."  Women are not men and aren't looking for nice guys -- they are looking for strong men who can protect them from the big bad world.  I resolved to be, or appear to be, that kind of man.

The book neatly excised my objection to "not being myself": if it's OK to "act" agreeable and cheerful, then it should be just as OK to act confident, cool, and commanding.

Before the meeting, I went to the gym, bench-pressed until my arms were shaking, took a very hot shower, and shaved.  At the coffee-house with Amelia, I was cool and laid-back, every sentence took just a fraction longer to say, I smiled lazily as I looked her body up and down.  She didn't seem to mind.  I suggested we go back to her place, she didn't mind that either.

We actually had a lot of work to do and I tried to be masterful without being overbearing and I think I got it pitch-perfect.  Once, she made a small error and reproached herself; I took her hand and looked into her eyes.  "Amelia," I told her slowly, "you're doing very well."

When we were done, we went over to her couch to chat, but, uh-oh!, she didn't sit next to me, but on the clever expensive 70s-retro chair.  "So, this is a lovely apartment.  You live here by yourself?"

"No, I live with boyfriend."

Ah, fuck me, fuck me.  But I didn't wince, didn't blink.  Just went on pleasantly.  I asked about the boyfriend.  Decorated Marine (so he can kick my ass if it comes to that), after the service went to law school, associate at a prestigious law school.

But something was definitely wrong.  Or right.  We went on talking.  I started to leave but she still wanted to chat.  I stood way, way too close to her as we talked and she didn't back away, at all.  She asked me if there might be a job for her at my company, and I told her there might be, which, by merest coincidence, is true.

It took us a half-hour to get from the couch to the door.  She said goodbye but then added, "Sorry if I seemed a little sleepy, I was up late.  That's why my eyes are all red."

Her eyes?  I took her face in my hand, came very close, tilted her face to the light.  I could feel the warmth of her breath.  "Your eyes are fine, beautiful."

And I picked up my laptop and left.