Alpha Move: Be Hungry Like The Wolf

I apologize in advance for all of the errors I'm going to make in this post -- I got three hours of sleep last night between landing at the airport from a long weekend in Las Vegas and getting up this morning to get the kids off to school.  And yes, I may very well be suffering through the tail end of a hangover.  It's certainly within the realm of possibility.

A long weekend in Las Vegas has the potential to be life-changing if you do it right, and while that sort of thing didn't happen this weekend, I did make several very intriguing field observations about Game in the wild, untamed, anything-goes erotic landscape of Las Vegas.  I like Las Vegas, if you can't tell.  It's like Disney for adults.  While they used to call it Sin City, I prefer the more accurate term the "City of Id".  If you've got a sexual itch to scratch, Las Vegas is like a premier buffet.  

But before I expound about my Single Game in Vegas observations, I want to cover the Married Game advantages to a weekend away in this most decadent of environments.  Some couples fear the idea of Vegas, too insecure in their relationship to be tempted by the fleshpots of Nevada.  Me, I just needed a vacation, and Mrs. Ironwood had a conference there, so we killed two birds and while she was being all noble and saving the world I was getting wasted around the clock and spending my kids' inheritance on penny slots and fruity rum drinks.

This was my third trip to the burgh, and after Mrs. I's conference was over and I was able to sober up enough to go and be social with her, we decided to blow off the closing  session for something a little more . . . intimate.  

"Intimate" in this case meant dirty dancing with my wife in front of a crowd of drunken strangers.

Look, everyone wants a hot sex weekend in Vegas, and as you get older your expectations for such events go up even as they become more infrequent.  And there was plenty of sex -- but that wasn't the draw for either of us.  We already have plenty of sex, thanks to the Red Pill.  But what is often missing from the lives of middle-aged married couples is that sense of excitement and intensity that may have faded over the years as you get used to each others' personal sexual idiosyncrasies.  The stuff that turns into hypergamy and/or infidelity if you aren't careful.  There is real danger in relationship ennui, and as Athol points out in yesterday's insightful post, you just can't count on a regular Date Night to keep things spicy and interesting.

But a drunken weekend in Vegas ...

We hit the buffet at Harrah's and pigged out, which did both of our stomachs good.  We were actually planning on heading over to the Erotic Museum, which I've planned on attending each of the three times I've been in Vegas and never quite making, and this time was no different.  We were even headed to the taxi stand to splurge on a cab there when we walked passed the open-air Carnaval bar at Harrah's and decided to stop inside for a smoke and get our bearings. We ended up staying there for over six hours.

The reason was the band.  Now, you can find every kind of entertainment known to man in Las Vegas, from transvestite lounge acts to comedy to acrobatics to a donkey show, if you know where to look.  The entertainment options are truly limitless.  But the mid-Sunday-afternoon band at the bar, an 80s tribute band called the Nancy Rayguns was free, enthusiastic, and actually quite good.  Throw in some drink specials, a flair bartender named Flippy, and a crowd of middle-aged Gen Xers who actually remember the songs that the band played, and you have one hell of a pink-and-teal acid-washed party.

But I had the nascent beginnings of a plan.  The point of this exercise wasn't merely to be entertained: it was to pay some very public attention to my wife in a way she would be reluctant to see if we weren't in the land of the 24 hour hooker, surrounded by a sea of Asian tourists and drunken old farts. The point was to show her that I'm still hungry.  Like the wolf.

I think that's a trap too many Blue Pill dudes fall into: once they are safely in a relationship, they forget the need to publicly express their desire for their woman.  Mrs. Ironwood and I went into that bar as a middle-aged husband and wife, and while that didn't change ostensibly, in actuality it was far more like a boyfriend taking out his girlfriend to a show than a husband and wife enjoying a quiet afternoon of entertainment.

Simply put, the moment I heard the first rockabilly strains of "Goody Two-Shoes", it was like it was 1987 all over again.  Sure, there was an element of nostalgia for my lost youth -- but it was far more a reminder of how far I've come in my life.  In 1987 I was overweight, underconfident, and mired in Blue Pill ideology that saw me get my heart handed to me by a series of women.  Hearing that band brought me back to my youth, sure.  Only this time I knew what the hell I was doing when it came to girls.  And I had conveniently packed my own.

So it was SHOWTIME for Ian.

Back when all of these songs came out, I had been stunted by insecurity and brow-beaten by the Blue Pill: it made me either a sullen wallflower or an over-the-top spaz when it came to girls.  It was the Age of AIDS and date rape seminars, the height of the cultural purge of masculinity the feminists waged throughout the Age of Teal.  I had been awkward, ugly, low-value, and sullenly embittered by the unfairness of it all and the hopelessness going forward.  You know, Teen Stuff.

Now . . . . not so much.  It took that nostalgic, painful flash of teenage angst associated with that music to make me appreciate just how far I have come.  The dude I was would never have dared to nuzzle a chick's neck in a public place without three pieces of signed and notarized documentation stating in advance that said neck-nuzzling was an acceptable and mutually consensual act agreed upon before hand that in no way obligated either party to any further activity not covered herein.

But now, I brazenly nibbled and more or less felt her up in an affectionate-and-socially-acceptable way in front of a crowd of drunken strangers.  I knew now what all of her Indicators of Interest were, and how I could arouse them through a combination of brazen cockiness and bold Alpha displays, especially in the social context of fellow adults engaged in similar pursuits.

I knew that the ragged strains of Joan Jett and the smooth crooning of Boy George, not to mention the naked , raw sexuality of Oates (sorry, Hall not so much) triggered a similar sexual nostalgia for her, taking her back to when sex revolved around cute boys and marrying someone rich and famous, not the titanic interpersonal struggle it evolved into as we matured.  I knew, without a shred of doubt or a hint of insecurity that I looked good, I was out with my chick, I could exhibit my social prowess through a series of increasingly-humorous and sexy displays, and, with a degree of certainty usually reserved for a cash transaction, that Ian would be getting lucky in Vegas that night.

The band played "Lets Get Physical" and I cavorted around Mrs. Ironwood's chair like a drunken teen, up to and including borderline obscene pelvic thrusts.  Then we had another drink and the time of our lives.  A drink later, I hit the jackpot.  They played Duran Duran's Hungry Like A Wolf.

Now, while I really didn't know Mrs. Ironwood back in the 1980s, I've picked up enough about her personal history to know which songs and performers elicit specific memories.  And I know for a fact that there has always been a certain damp spot in her panties for Duran Duran.  Something to do with a middle school crush, perhaps, I'm not sure of the details but based on memorabilia and previous response, Duran Duran -- Simon Le Bon, Nick Rhodes, John Taylor, Andy Taylor and Roger Taylor -- just does something to Mrs. I.  Live Duran Duran, after three rounds of fruity rum drinks and a free pour-in-your-mouth shot courtesy of Flippy the flair bartender, and I could only imagine what was going on in her libido.  And I knew just how to turn it up.

All the way to 11.

(It's like everyone else just goes to 10, but ...)

When Hungry Like The Wolf came on, I got up in front of everyone and started dancing with the two drunk chicks who were celebrating their 40th birthday and reliving their own nostalgic moments on the dance floor. Mrs. Ironwood giggled girlishly as I paid them some nasty (but tasteful) attention, and got some solid preselection points in return.  Then I went back to the table, grabbed her by the hand, and led her out on the dance floor.

Now, Mrs. I, as a rule, doesn't dance.  She's still recovering from breaking her heel and other foot injuries, so the entire trip revolved on her walking as little as possible.  But three drinks drunk, with her husband boyfriend insisting that he wanted her -- her and only her -- so much, so publicly, that he was willing to risk looking utterly ridiculous in an effort to impress her with his manly strutting.  But I owed it to her.

 No one puts Baby in a corner. 

So strut I did.  I pulled every 80s dance move but the Robot (even I have some pride) my tired old body could manage.  I put on my my my my my boogie shoes.  There was moonwalking involved.  There was more funky pelvic thrusting . . . and drop-to-your-knees grinding in a most indecent fashion, my face making scenic detours through her cleavage on both legs of the round trip.  There was gyrating and spins.  There was Footloose-style white people dancing.  I even attempted a half-split that didn't end too badly.

 I dragged Mrs. I out of her safe chair near the stage and into and out of my contortions on the dance floor, never loosing eye-contact, never letting my full intention waver from her and her alone.  There was macho struttery and arrogant posturing.  There was lurid movements and gratuitous crotch-grabbing.  I was on like Donkey Kong, putting it out there, working hard for the money.

And Mrs. Ironwood ate it up like Pop-Rocks.

That's when I went to 11.  I popped my collar.  Like The Outsiders. For real. And I meant it.

You could almost hear the gush, and not just from her.  The horny birthday girls (with mommy bobs -- sorry ladies, thank you for playing) were visibly envious.  The crowd, already watching my antics, went wild.  The band called it to everyone's attention.  Flippy flipped out.  I'm not great-looking, but comparatively speaking I was on the high side of the Sex Rank at that club, and I knew it.  I was one of only a handful of guys dancing, and by far the most flamboyant and arguably the most enthusiastic.  I worked it.  Dance-wise, I was AMOG.  

Me. Nerd Boy.  Damn.

In 1987 I never would have considered being that, in any venue.  In 1987 every glance at a woman was plagued with Betacized doubt and cowering fear.  Dance in public?  With women?  With a girlfriend?  Not me, man.  I'm not that dude.  I'm the nerd, over in the corner.

Now I'm the nerd at the center of attention.  I'm the nerd boldly going where I never would have dreamt I'd go.  I was a nerd with Game, and that made me mighty.

It also made Mrs. I terribly, terribly enchanted with my display.  For one brief shining moment, the kids, the house, the jobs, the career track, the money issues and all the responsibilities were gone, and it was just me showing my chick how badly I wanted her in front of the whole world, without pause or reservation (or, apparently, any sense of propriety).  Just me demonstrating how badly I wanted to do wicked things to her body and delight her soul.  How I was hungry like the alpha wolf I was.  The Red Pill kicked into Extended Release, and I commenced to do nasty things to her leg while I nibbled on her ear while the crowd cheered us on. We concluded the song with a heartfelt public kiss with tongue and my hand on her ass and everything, and we got a round of drunken applause from the crowd that I'd never have imagined I'd be getting back when leg warmers walked the earth..

Thanks to a timely royalty check, we'd been able to do Vegas without looking at our bank balance for once. Which meant I hemorrhaged money over four days.  I haven't even figured out how extravagant I was yet, because I'm afraid to total up the receipts.

But honestly, I don't care how much it cost, or how much energy I devoted to making the trip happen, dirty dancing with your wife girlfriend in a crowd of drunken strangers and making every woman there envy her your devotion and attention, that, Gentlemen, made it worth every fucking penny.  It was pure, primal Game. It slashed through years of accumulated bullshit and brought us back to the primal boy-meets-girl that got the whole thing started.  It was Game made manifest.

It's all right there in the 16 Commandments, Number 2 (Make Her Jealous), Number 6 (Keep Her Guessing -- no one expects a popped collar . . . until it's too late), Number 9 (Connect With Her Emotions), Number 11 (Be Irrationally Self-Confident -- I told you I went to 11), Number 12 (Maximize Your Strengths - goofiness and gratuitous displays of ego, check!) . . . and especially Number 13.

Ah, Number 13.  Always Err On The Side Of Too Much Boldness, Not Too Little.

Too often we married dudes forget that.  There's a timidity that can arise from long acquaintance, a mix of boredom and familiarity that needs to be regularly washed away like a bad stain on your Members Only jacket.   Blue Pill dudes don't get it at all -- it might as well still be 1987.  But as far as Married Game goes, this is a tricky but essential way of keeping your woman's interest high.  You must be bold.  You must find some way to reach beyond the mundanities of middle-age and grasp the essential testosterone-poisoned, horny-enough-to-screw-a-goat teenage libido and all the reckless abandon it represents . . . without doing something stupid like cheating on her.

You Must Boldly Go, if you want her loins to ache for you.  Show her, in public if need be.  Fuck propriety. Fuck mature wisdom.  Fuck middle age reserve. (And while you're at it, remember Number 14). Show her that you're still the same horny, groping teen you were back in the day.  Show her how she makes you throb, and do it unashamedly, without reservation.  That she's sweeter than wine.  Bust a move on her behalf.  Show her that you have that wolfy hunger that made you do awkwardly stupid things in your adolescence . . . but now you have the wit and wisdom to boldly display every nasty shred of Alpha in your aging body.  Show her that you're the MAN, and that she's damn lucky to have found you, and damn special for being the center of your personal universe.

And if you do it right, you'll never have to worry about Number 16.  Because you've got Game, son.  That's the key.  Game.  Understanding the complex interplay of heterosexual dynamics that leads to high-quality interpersonal and physical encounters with an ever-increasing level of satisfaction, and being able to play those emotional notes like a Moog synthesizer until she's practically begging to do simply nasty things to you once you get back to the hotel room.  Like a virgin . . . only not so much Madonna as whore.

The rest of the evening was eventful, but I'm going to stop the narrative here.  We made it back to the hotel after a few adventures -- Vegas is a hell of a town.  Once we recovered sufficiently, and we were far from prying eyes (they're watching you), I continued a display utilizing good old Number 14.  I don't need to relate the details here, for dramatic reasons.  Use your imagination.

Let's just say . . . I was hungry like the wolf.  And there are other things I've gotten much, much better at since 1987.

More later.  Must sleep soon.

Ian out.

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Alpha Move: Midnight Picnic

This was one of my earliest "Alpha Moves", and was born out of poverty and desperation as much as romance and lust.   After so many long, philosophical posts I figured I'd toss y'all a dating bone.

When Mrs. Ironwood and I first started going out, we were the typical poor college students living in a student hovel.  "Going out" meant the Wendy's Hot Bar (Wendy's had a hot bar back then) and drinking an embarrassingly cheap bottle of wine at home.

But after a few months the complacency had begun to set into our relationship, and I saw the need, even then, to inject a healthy dose of lusty romance into it to keep us both interested.  Fancy restaurants or theater being far out of our reach, I instead searched for some way to get her in a sensuous, romantic place for some serious no-one-can-hear-you-scream nookie, with accouterments, for less than fifty bucks.  After doing a little basic research, I figured it out.  In retrospect, it was a good Red Pill date moment, simple and elegant, but instructive.  And it made quite an impression.

I took Mrs. Ironwood on a midnight picnic.

PREPARATION

This took a bit of prep, of course.   I chose a late Spring, early Summer day, after the pollen but before the mosquitoes, and I carefully selected a secluded site.  Luckily we lived on the edge of the rural/urban interface, so finding a place far enough away from people to ensure privacy, yet close enough to keep it from being a chore to get their in the dark, wasn't that much of a problem.  Even then Mrs. Ironwood could trip over her own shadow.

The spot I selected was a long-abandoned horse pasture, still mostly fenced in, well behind the old stable.  It was at the far end of the pasture, which had been long-trodden and overgrown for years, and was now covered with moss.  It was quite meadowy.  Overhanging cedar trees provided both a screen for seclusion and a place to hang stuff -- and hang stuff I did.

This was the Age Before LEDs, so instead I used several hurricane lamps and candles, distributed around the blanket I pre-positioned.  I used the space behind a largish rock for a staging area, dragging a cooler and a boom box there and setting up both.  I borrowed a few wind chimes from my mother's back porch and hid them in the trees for effect.  I set up an unobtrusive cone of incense far back away from our picnic to keep from triggering her asthma.  In the cooler I added a selection of  three types of cheese, crackers, summer sausage, grapes, strawberries and sugar, wine glasses, cutting board, knife, corkscrew (OK, it wasn't screw-cap cheap wine, but close), a citronella candle, and napkins.  The boom-box was set up with a mix tape (!) of George Winston tunes, soft rock, and vocal Celtic music (which I didn't know at the time, but my future wife absolutely loathed).

The blanket was a wide, fluffy one spread out over a tarp.  I brought a few pillows along for comfort, and just in case of rain I pitched my pup-tent discreetly on the other side of the barn.  Then I threw another tarp over the blanket and made sure that the path from the parking area to the pasture was clear of twigs, branches, and garden gnomes.

EXECUTION

That evening, I knew the future Mrs. I was working until at least 9:30 (restaurant job), and since her car was broken down, I picked her up from work.  We had some small talk, smoked a cigarette, and were headed home just like a normal night . . . when I took a strange turn off of the road.

"Uh, where are we going?" she asked, a little nervously.

"This way," I assured her, as we crept down the dirt road.  She bit her lip and then suddenly started looking all over the back seat of my gallant college POS, an AMC Pacer.  The future Mrs. Ironwood had decided to date me, anyway.

"What?  What are you looking for?" I asked, confused.

"An axe, duct tape, chainsaw, garbage bags, that sort of thing," she said, cheerfully as she turned back around.

"Oh, relax," I soothed.  "If I was that kind of dude, I would have done that months ago and moved on already.  Those guys are poseurs.  I'm not that afraid of commitment.  Sorry, but you're in for years of torment ahead of you," I joked.  "Besides, you keep that kind of shit in the trunk."

"You don't have a trunk," she pointed out.  "So where the hell are we going?" she demanded, her nostrils flaring prettily.

"On a date," I said, even more mysteriously.  "Fairy land, maybe.  Relax, enjoy the evening.  It's a full moon," I pointed out.

She grunted an agreement, but still looked worried.  But excited.  I finally stopped the car in the middle of nowhere and then asked her to wait a few moments.  She wasn't thrilled with that, out in the woods, but I told her she could lock the door and leave the lights on until I returned, if that made her feel better, so she agreed.

I ran down to the meadow and took the tarp off the blanket, lit the candles and lamps, and turned the music on softly before returning to the car.  I was only gone maybe two minutes.

"What now?" she asked, through a barely-slitted window.  The door was still locked.

"Now, we go on our date," I said, offering her my hand.  "Trust me."

We were still new in the relationship, so I can understand her hesitation.  But she also knew I had gone to a lot of trouble, and I probably really wasn't a serial killer because those guys are always loner neat-freaks and I was a social slob.  So she got out of the car and reluctantly followed me.

I'd lit the first candle in the path just out of sight of the car, so when we turned the corner she saw it.  Her eyes lit up a little.  Seven more tealight candles later, and she was staring at the picnic I'd laid out, wonder in her eyes.

"You did all this . . . for me?"

"My first date prospect fell through," I joked.  "And I figured you'd be my next easiest choice, emphasis on 'easy'," I quipped.  "Of course I did it for you.  Who else do I want to seduce by moonlight?"

"I'm sure you have a list," she mused, while looking around at all of the candles, augmented by the season's first fireflies.  "Ian, it's beautiful!"

We sat down, ate the picnic, had a lovely evening to soft music and candlelight, and even managed to slow dance a little under the stars and the bright, full moon.  Then we proceeded to the sweaty bits several times before the bugs finally overcame the inherent romance of the moment and forced a late retreat.

It's been nearly 20 years since I did that, but whenever Mrs. Ironwood discusses "the perfect date" with my nieces and daughter, she brings that one up without fail as one of her top five.  I've repeated it several times since -- always an unexpected surprise, always well-planned and executed, with contingencies for everything from wild animals, sudden showers or wandering law enforcement officials well-made.  She says it was one of the most Alpha dates she'd ever been on, since she had no idea it was going to happen and no input into what we did.  As such, it was a very, very interesting, hopelessly romantic surprise that helped cement in her head the idea that she wanted to have my babies.

So consider trying this one out.  It's cheap, it's easy (and we're dudes . . . we LOVE "cheap and easy"), it's impressive, it demonstrates foresight and sensitivity as well as your ability to plan and execute a simple date that doesn't involve tipping or being anywhere at a particular time.  Consider doubling the picnic with a telescope to look at the moon, or schedule it during a meteor shower where you spend the evening making wishes on falling stars.

It doesn't have to be midnight, but the next time you're trapped watching Dancing With The Stars with your wife before she yawns and goes to bed, remember that you could be dancing under the stars -- and getting some nookie au natural -- instead.

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Anatomy of the Perfect Red Pill Date: Phase VIII Coda

Continued from Phase VII Sex And Stuff

Coda

It's all to simple to want to sit back and rest on your laurels after pulling off the perfect Red Pill date.  I mean, after buffing your SR through the roof and then spending several passionate hours enjoying the fruits of your labors may seem like sufficient recompense for your expense and time.  And if this was a one-night-stand or a booty call, you might be right.

But this is my wife -- the woman who will someday likely drive me to the doctor four times a week for treatment for whatever is going to kill me when I'm 80.  You can't pump and dump your wife -- it's poor form and reduces your SR.  Even just soaking up the vibe of fulfilled contentment, while alluring, isn't what you need to do the next morning.  When you're married, after all, the date is still going on.

I got up the next morning at a ridiculously early hour for a weekend, but I had a mission yet to accomplish.  With Mrs. Ironwood still snoring contentedly away, I snuck out to the kitchen and began making her breakfast in bed.

Aww, I can hear you saying, How trite, contrived and cliched!

Well, yeah.  But there's a reason it's trite, contrived, and cliched -- it works.  And as with so many things, it's really about how you do it.

I took our leftovers out of the fridge and began preparations.  First the coffee -- and for this morning I chose a recent Honduran coffee which won the SCAA's Golden Cup award.  Now you might prefer Duncan Donuts brew (It's not bad -- 100% Sumatran Organic) but I wanted something special, and I knew the man who roasted it, personally.  And while the coffee was brewing, I began an omelet.

Now, a lot of men are intimidated by the omelet, mostly because it is reputed to be a difficult and elaborate dish.  In fact, nothing could be further from the truth.  Omelets are easy, if you know a few secrets.

First, start with eggs as close to room temperature as possible, so get the eggs out BEFORE you make the coffee.  Then beat three eggs well with a wisk or fork in a bowl.  Add 1-2 tsps. of COLD WATER.  The rule goes, if you want eggs that are fluffy, add milk (protein).  If you want your eggs to coalesce and remain intact as you fold it around like you do with an omelet, you use cold water to thin the proportions of protein.  

Next, get out whatever you're going to stuff the omelet with.  This can be just about anything you like with eggs, but I wanted to reprise the night before, so I grabbed Mrs. I's leftover steak (the one with the Roquefort and balsamic vinegar glaze) and sliced it as thin as I could.  Then I sauteed it in a pan with some mushrooms, onions, a few jaunty asparagus tips, splashed in a tsp. of white wine to deglaze, and a 1/4 tsp of white truffle oil before I took it off the heat and set it aside.

NOTE: Truffle oil, white or black, is for my money the single easiest way to impart a mad amount of flavor to a savory dish without incurring a big fat/sugar penalty.  You'll spend about $10-$15 on a bottle, but you'll only use it occasionally and it should last you at least a year.  But the aroma and the flavor it adds to any dish is amazing.  I've put a few drops in plain Kraft Mac & Cheese to take to a function and had people RAVE about my incredibly wonderful fare.  Truffle oil is such a strong but delicate flavor it's hard to go wrong with it.

Now, to the omelet: Stir up your egg mixture a bit, put a saute pan or omelet pan on the stove on Med-High heat, and spray with a non-stick cooking spray, and as soon as it's hot, dump the egg mixture in and turn the heat to MED.  Then wait a few minutes.  You'll notice, of course, that the eggs around the sides get hard and cooked pretty quickly, but that there's a huge pool of liquid egg still in the center.  So you take your spatula and you gently pry-up the edges of the omelet as it cooks and allow that liquid to seep under the cooked egg, where it will cook and add itself to the omelet one layer at a time.  You continue doing this around the edge of the dish until there is almost no liquid left.  

Then you dump all of that stuff you sauteed earlier onto one side of the circular egg disc in the pan.  In my case it was really good steak, mushrooms, onions, and asparagus.  I also added about 2 oz. of chevre goat cheese -- it's like cream cheese only much, much better.  At this point, one side of your omelet should look like a pizza, kinda, and the other should be bare.  This is where you gently force your spatula under the empty side and flip it up over the top of all of the stuffing.  Let it cook a few moments while you're preparing to plate it up.

Getting an omelet out of the pan without destroying it's essentially sandwichy nature is actually pretty easy.  Instead of screwing around with a spatula in an effort to lift the entire thing to a plate intact, try inverting the plate over the pan with the folded omelet, then flipping both until the more-cooked side of the omelet is on the plate -- voila!

Now I could have stopped there, but I also had a half a cantaloupe and fresh strawberries.  I served the latter with a dollop of sour cream and sugar -- really, try it.  Add some whole wheat English Muffins and the coffee, and you've got a highly impressive breakfast in bed in about as much time as it takes to whip up some scrambled eggs.  

So I woke up Mrs. I the next morning with a steak-and-asparagus omelet, fresh fruit, and coffee.  Needless to say, I was greeted in heroic fashion.  I elected to sit with her while she ate (I rarely eat breakfast) and enjoy my truly exquisite coffee while we discussed the details of the previous evening.

Now, why did I bring her breakfast in bed when I already got my cookies?  Well, for one thing the goal was to inflate my SR and keep it inflated, and by re-engaging her the next morning I quickly kill any idea that I just wanted to get my cookies, and I did, in fact, have an incredibly good time going out with her.  

The other advantage to this is that its a great DHV if done properly and unexpectedly.  She knows I can cook and it's hard to impress her with that.  But taking dinner leftovers and re-inventing them as breakfast, that impressed her.  Enough to decide after breakfast (and an extended period in the bathroom) that she was ready for more cookies.

By Noon (yes, Noon -- Pagans don't usually make it to Church on Sunday) we were both thoroughly sated in body, mind, and spirit.  She managed to call four girlfriends, her sister and her mother while I was cleaning up the kitchen, informing them all of her incredible evening, and getting gasps of envy from her best friends.  Her single friends were incredibly jealous, but so were her married friends.  As a mutual friend of ours just mentioned yesterday, "Dude, you done fucked it up and raised the bar for every married man here!".

Preselection and Admiration Buffs: SR +4 (reaction of friends and relatives)

Alpha Wolf Buff: SR +1 (reaction of MY friends)

By treating her thus, I raised Mrs. Ironwood's personal status within her female peer group significantly.  While that group does include more ostensibly attractive women, as well as other women in relationships and plenty of single women, the fact that I a) romantically dated my wife b) spent a LOT of money on the date and c) was not hesitant in the slightest about bragging about it to my male friends (too often as men we feel discouraged about bragging about our romantic conquests, particularly if we are married and there is only one "land" you can legally conquer -- brag about your romantic prowess to your fellas in front of your wife and you get additional points for alphatude), nearly every woman in her group has to admit that her current relationship is not, in fact, that successfully romantic.  Which means I look that much better, and so does she.

But inflating her status and SR was one of the goals -- because as long as she feels good about the date and it meets with the approval of her female peers, then the likelihood she will respond positively to future sexual advances goes up significantly.  

IN CONCLUSION: The Hooker Math

Now, some of you might be literally shitting bricks over the idea of spending $500 on a date -- not a whole weekend, but one date.  It seems outrageously extravagant, and I'm sure you think I'm being a chumpish ATM about the whole thing.  But to use the venerable Athol Kay's concept of "hooker math" (dividing the number and types of sex with a woman by the amount of money you spent on her, adjusted to conform with the price list of the median price of said sex acts by local professionals for the same service), I stand behind my investment.  Because you can't just count one night into the occasion.

It has now been over two weeks since the Big Date.  But it is still paying dividends.

The weekend after, we ended up going to a semi-formal PTA auction, and reprised our outfits from the previous week.  We both looked hot, I in particular got some attention (we have more single mommies than single daddies at our elementary school) which added to my preselection buff, and it certainly helped Mrs. I's status with the other mommies by having me on her arm, and bragging about the previous week's date.  This brought back a complete reprise of the feelings of the previous weekend, and we spent another post-date evening rutting like crazed weasels.  And this time it cost me about $15 in drinks and the purchase of a custom-made hula hoop.

But wait, there's more . . . 

This past Saturday, we had yet another series of events.  First the Cub Scout Blue and Gold Banquet, and later that evening a friend's 40th birthday party.  Again we reprised the outfits, re-lived the date, and got all warm and fuzzy again.  Again I caught a lovely preselection and admiration buff.  And, yet again, there was a lot of sex involved, inspired by the date.

So as far as Hooker Math goes, after putting $500 into it, I essentially quintupled the value of my money.  So for an evening out I arguable got over $2500 worth of hot, steamy married-people sex and a wife who thinks the sun rises and sets in my ass.  It wasn't the money -- hell, that was one of the points of this exercise, to do a date without worrying about money.  It was the experience.  I wanted to do it, I made it happen, and I reaped the consequential rewards -- and continue to do so.

Factoring that into the equation . . . that was one of the best $500 I ever spent.

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Anatomy of the Perfect Red Pill Date: Phase VI Sex And Stuff

Continued from Phase V Dinner

FAIR WARNING: While I am a writer of erotica, you will find no lurid or salacious details about my personal sex life here.  The purpose of this post is to tutor, not to titillate.

From the very beginning of the evening, sex was always on the table.  That was the frame I went into the date with: I'm treating you to a lovely evening of excitement, decadence, and attention, which will culminate in a mutually-satisfactory sexual experience involving a far higher level of expectation than "standard fare".  There was no doubt in my mind -- nor in hers, thanks to my quiet determination -- that sex was part of the evening's plans.

That being said, there's sex and then there's Sex.

Mrs. Ironwood and I have developed a kind of code-word analogy for an ascending level of sexual experiences over the years, using dining experiences as the metaphor.  We like to eat out, so this allows us to discuss sex in front of them subtly and through heavy innuendo.

Here are the stages of Married People Sex, via the metaphor of eating out:

1. McDonald's Drive Thru - This is the bare bones maintenance sex, the "lie back and think of England", "Honey, I'm too tired but you go ahead and do your thing", "If you really need it I'm here for you but try not to wake me up" kind of sex.  Vibrators are suggested.  Emergency sex.  Sex when it's not necessarily about anything other than tearing one off.    School-night sex.  Eye contact is optional.  So is consciousness.

2. Golden Corral - Implies no-frills sex, usually no more than one or two positions, without more than token foreplay but with eye contact, kissing, a sweet nothing or two.  Expectations are low for both of you.  Orgasms are often optional, but pleasantly received.  Post-coital pillow-talk beyond the basics is unnecessary.

3. Pizza -   Light to medium foreplay, oral but not necessarily to orgasm, kissing, intercourse with at least two and up to four positions.  Moderate to heavy pillow talk afterwards, then fall asleep drooling and sticky.  Comfortable, pleasant, "was it good for you, too" sex.  Friday night sex, not Saturday night sex.

4. Chinese - Medium to heavy foreplay, oral usually to orgasm, major kissing, intercourse in three to five positions, moderate pillow talk afterwards or between the first and second course.  (It's Chinese . . . you're usually horny again an hour later).  Usually you can't consider Chinese or above with kids in the house.  Not if you do it right.

5. Italian - Saturday Night sex.  Sex after a genuine date, usually casual, but you definitely got a sitter.  Maybe a few drinks or a concert.  Public displays of affection, hand-holding, suddenly pulling her into a corner for extended smooching, making out in the car, maybe a little light foreplay on the way home.  Sex in at least four positions, likely twice (or once but for an extended period of time), with mood music and appropriate lighting.  Toys beyond basic vibrator and lube are suggested.  Light fantasy play is also a possibility.

6. Continental - High Fantasy sex.  The kind of sex you have when the kids are at the grandparents for a three-day weekend, you have the house to yourself and access to soundproofing.  This is where you experiment with cosplay, advanced toys, BDSM, a bunny suit, trapeze, sex swing, you name it.  Consult local statutes to ensure you aren't breaking any laws.

7. Four Star - Hotel sex.  It's in a class by itself.  You put even the most demure wife in a nice hotel room and the possibilities of invoking her inner slut are limitless.  Hotel sex is a fine art, and like fine art it's ridiculously expensive.  There are countless ways to cut down on the expense for a creatively-minded couple, but unless you're fulfilling your cheap hooker fantasy at a local hot sheets rooms-by-the-hour motel, you're going to spend a couple of hundred bucks on this.  It's worth it.  Two or three nights of Four Star hotel sex a year can go light-years in keeping your marital relationship fresh.  I'll cover this at some point in the future, because it deserves it's own post, but this is the epitome.  There's only one tier higher than this, Hotel Sex In Vegas After Winning Big.

So that's the scale.  When I ask my wife "what she wants for dinner" and she tells me "I'm feeling like Golden Corral tonight", then we have subtly communicated a) a desire for sex, thus controlling the frame and b) a way to respond with an appropriate level of potential interest.  Similarly, if she texts me "Going to be a long night -- looks like drive-thru", I know that my chances for anything elaborate are remote, but she might be up for a quickie, if I'm so inclined.   And if I say "Hon, we need to plan a four star trip soon", she knows precisely what that entails.

So, back to the Big Date.

Almost by definition, this was a Continental night, and for another hundred bucks I could have sprung for a surprise hotel room and ended the evening in Four Star territory.  But part of my goal for the evening was to ensure that she had a good time and I had a good time, and I knew that a hotel room -- while an extravagant luxury she wouldn't hesitate to indulge in -- would also provide additional problems.

First, there was the issue of her not having the arsenal of potions, lotions, pills and powders she uses to feel beautiful (or at least wipe the makeup off of her face), nor anything to sleep in, nor anything to wear tomorrow.  And while I could have planned for that and added a contingency, the second reason made that moot.

The second reason that I didn't push for Level Seven was that I knew that would make her feel far more anxious than sexy.  Hotel Sex is a major deal, and usually requires preparation on the part of both parties to work right.  Without that prep, done to her satisfaction, then she would certainly feel not just a higher level of expectation but have to contend with that without recourse to the things that helped her feel secure and sexy.  So while a sudden detour to a hotel room would have been exciting, the anxiety involved would have mitigated the all of the good buffing I'd been doing all night.

Besides, we had a sitter.  And while Niece was certainly capable of putting the kids down for the night, our morning routine would be a challenge for her to handle on her own.  Plus, stately Ironwood Manor is fortunate enough to have the master bedroom semi-detached from the rest of the house, allowing a modicum of privacy and a lot less worry about sound waking up the kids through three doors.  Yes, I planned it that way.  We'll cover Setting Up Your Bedroom in another post.

But while we're here, I did make up the bed with clean sheets -- Egyptian cotton, 1000 threadcount, I'm just that way -- as well as prepare some good sherry as a night-cap.  There were also candles involved, but my room is already set up with ample mood lighting, including a skylight that allowed the light of the moon to shine down on our bed in a particularly romantic way.

So once we mumbled hello-goodnight to the Niece and ensured the kids were comatose for the evening, we threw the leftovers in the fridge and made a bee-line for the bedroom . . . where I immediately allowed Mrs. I full use of the bathroom while I finished preparing for the evening.  I gave her the privacy despite being married 20 years for the same reason I kick her out of the kitchen when I'm making something particularly exotic or tricky: working the pleasantly-surprised angle is always a good thing, regardless if you're male or female.  Mrs. Ironwood wanted to not just restore her makeup, etc., she also wanted to get out of the Spanx that were making her life so interesting . . . and there are just some things that even a devoted husband should not see.

The end result was spectacular, in part because I had pre-selected the lingerie I wanted her in and laid it out while she was elsewhere.  I chose a non-itchy satin nightgown that I've always loved for it's simple elegance, flattering lines, and admirable accessibility -- there are nights for more exotic lingerie, but I wanted to control the frame completely this evening and that meant keeping lingerie from being the focal point.  And yes, Mrs. I complimented me on the thoughtfulness of the selection as well as her appreciation for me taking the guess-work out of the equation.

Leadership Buff: SR +1

When she emerged from our bathroom, I had transformed the bedroom with candles, indirect rope lighting, a tray of chocolates (even though we were stuffed), and sherry.  And music, of course.  The Big Band era Swing had done its job -- now I needed something a little more sensual.  I settled for cable's Classic R&B channel, and perchance Barry White was belting out his soulful, sensuous sounds by the bucketfull.

As for my dress . . . I stayed in my suit.  I loosened my tie, a bit, but I stayed in the suit.  Why?  Because Mrs. I really, really likes the suit.  And I wanted to work that for everything I could.

The remainder of the evening will be left up to your imagination, for it would be of interest only to the aficionado or the voyeuristic.  Just remember two things: I had hyped my subjective sex rank as far as I possibly could without actually winning a million bucks, and I work in porn and have a very creative imagination.  All I'll say is that we only got a few hours of sleep, and only after a lot of strenuous activity.

'Nuff said.

NEXT: Phase VII Coda

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Anatomy of the Perfect Red Pill Date: Phase V Dinner

Continued from Phase IV Music

Dinner, of course, was the centerpiece of the evening.

I chose the restaurant (code named Valabar's) because it has a national reputation for both cuisine and service, it's ridiculously difficult to get into without reservations months in advance, and its specialty was perfectly aged and prepared Angus beef.  I just got my teeth fixed -- it was time for a steak.  And even though the prices would ordinarily put me into a coma, I had the money to order whatever I wanted for a change and not worry about the price.  That, alone, gave me buckets of confidence.  Pep talks and creative visualizations are fine for developing Confidence, but try putting a fat roll of twenties in your pocket thicker than your dick and watch what happens to your attitude.

We were a little early, so I took the time to make out with Mrs. Ironwood in the car, and then wait until she fixed her makeup.  She was nearly purring.  I offered her my arm and we went inside to check in.

The place was packed, and it's a large place, and it was 9:30 at night.  But we only had to wait ten minutes.  My wife (of course) took the opportunity to freshen up, which proved challenging in her tight new skirt, which left me hanging around the hostess stand with a pager and a stupid expression on my face.

Luckily, Valabar's has a walk-in humidor -- yes, it's that kind of place.

Now, there are few things more inherently manly than the smell of cigar tobacco in a humidor.  It's right up there with Old Spice and jock straps when it comes to powerfully masculine aromas.  I slid the door back and walked into the humid, sweet-smelling air.

I'll be honest, I'm not a cigar smoker.  My experience is limited to bachelor parties and a few other special occasions.  But I grew up in tobacco country, and the nearly cloying aroma of cigars is nostalgic for me.  I surveyed the carefully-arrayed boxes, with phallic-shaped objects of conspicuous consumption laid out around me, and I felt compelled to indulge despite my ignorance.  I chose something short, fat, and bold, about $12 worth of cigar.  It was far from the most expensive cigar there, but it was far from the cheapest, either.  Just enough to give me the feeling and the flavor without making me reek like an old pool player all night.  And, of course, I reserved it for after the meal.  I didn't want to destroy my palate.

I had the clerk cut it and I was back on station before Mrs. Ironwood finally came out, looking relieved and put-together again -- and just in time for the pager to go off.

Valabar's is so large that we were handed off to three different hostesses until we got to our table.  But when we sat down, the noise of the other patrons faded around us as we indulged in the homey-yet-ridiculously-tasteful ambiance.  Our waiter appeared with bread, cheese, a pickle tray, and water, and we were off.

I wanted steak in the worst way.  While famous for their Prime Rib, I sprung for the fifteen ounce sirloin.

Mrs. Ironwood looked up.  "Why don't you order for me?" she asked.

My eyebrows shot up.  "Really?"  This was a departure.

"This is your show," she shrugged.  "And what you order is always better than what I order.  You're driving, you know what I like, you order for me."

I didn't argue.  If she was going to place the reins in my hand, I wasn't going to let go.  "All right," I said, surveying the menu.  I decided that if I got the steak and she didn't, she'd end up eating half of mine anyway.  She's right, I do order better than she does.  I cook, she doesn't.  I worked as a gourmet vendor for five years.  I'm a foodie.  I selected the same steak I got, only I had it done rare, with a glaze of balsamic vinegar and Roquefort cheese. Twice-baked potatoes on the side.  House salads before hand.  No appetizer, because I wanted to enjoy my steak and still leave room for the desserts for which the place was justly famed.

I also bought a bottle of wine, and spent more than I ever have before.  I know just a little more about wine than I do cigars, but you can't work the specialty food business without picking up a few things.  I found a California Zinfandel I'd heard about from someone, and asked the waiter about it.  He made a counter proposal, based on our meal, which actually was ten dollars cheaper than mine.  Never hesitate to ask the waiter's opinion, but don't be afraid to ask for options, either.  I was feeling affluent, not wealthy.

Now, how do you pull this off without looking like an utter cheapskate?

"What would you say the best valued wine to go with our meal would be?"

That "best value" is politely acceptable code for "don't rip me off and I'll be generous with the tip" in fine dining language.  Because I knew that the man was familiar with the wine options because you just don't get to walk in off the street and start waiting tables at Valabar's.  I'd even been to one of their employee information sessions, back when I was trying to sell them stuff.  The waiter knows that there are several equally outstanding options to go with any meal, and while he's more than happy to sell you a $100 bottle with your steak, if you ask him he'll be just as agreeable selling you a $50 bottle that's almost as good.  And since our palates just weren't developed enough to really appreciate the $50 difference, the extra would have been wasted on us.  A good fine dining waiter is far more interested in ensuring a perfect experience than he is padding the bill, if he's smart.  Ours was smart.

He brought the bottle out for my inspection, uncorked it with professional efficiency, and poured a splash in my glass.  This is the part where you can look like an idiot, if you don't know what to do.  As the gentleman in the party, it was up to me to approve the wine before it was served.  I truly enjoyed splashing it around to see its legs, inhaling the deep, spicy aroma of the red, and allowing a small aspirated sip to spray over my tongue before I let it was luxuriously around my mouth, gaming my taste buds with gay abandon.

It was the most expensive wine I'd ever bought . . . and it was worth every penny.

Wine is an expensive habit to get into.  When I ran a specialty coffee roastery, I noted that half of the people in high-end coffee are there because it's too expensive to play in high-end wines for most people.  So they get into coffee but hang out with their wine friends like they're ashamed of the Demon Bean.  At some levels, a wine habit is more expensive than a cocaine habit.  But I could see the allure.  If I am every ridiculously filthy rich, yeah, I'll waste my money on fine wine.  Life is short.

"That is exquisite," I told the waiter, and offered my glass to the Missus.  Her eyes shot open.  She isn't a wine aficionado either, but she comes from a long line of wealthy alcoholics, and she knew quality even if she couldn't appreciate it.  She nodded eagerly for the waiter to fill her glass.

We picked at the pickle tray and played footsie under the table.  There was a time when I had found good conversation difficult even when it was just my wife and I.  But "awkward" rarely gets you laid (and when it does, it usually proves problematic later) so I tried to forget the formalities of the occasion and plunged in with  casual confidence.

I made the rule at the beginning of the dinner: no discussing the children, our work, our respective to-do lists or our anxieties.  Conversation was limited to happy fun things, wickedly dirty dream vacation plans, gossip, and thinly-disguised innuendo that had us both well-aroused by the time our meals arrived.

I'm not going to describe the meal in detail, because words can't do it proper justice.  I will say that the balsamic vinegar/Roquefort glaze was fucking orgasmic, particularly with the wine.  And I was glad I got us each the 15 oz -- when you know you're going to end up taking some steak home from Valabar's, you do your best to ensure that you're taking a LOT of steak home from Valabar's.

We didn't say much while we were eating, because it was just that good.  I managed almost half of my steak, and she finished over a third of hers, but despite our efforts to pace ourselves, there was just no way.  I called for boxes and a dessert tray.

It was well past 10 pm at this point, but I was feeling just a hint of a buzz from the wine, and had a mood for something sweet before I proceeded toward seduction.  One reason why Valabar's is so popular is that they had nine different desserts on their tray, each one baked by magical elves and designed to make grown women leave slug-trails of lust in their wake, so rich are they.  When faced with such a momentous decision, my wife's eyes began to glaze over.  If I didn't intervene, it might be a long night.

"We'll take the double chocolate mousse cheesecake," I said, "and the strawberry sorbet for the lady.  Two coffees with cream."

Mrs. Ironwood was perplexed about my decision -- I hadn't consulted her in the slightest, which was a departure.  I shrugged.  "You told me to order for you.  I figured you meant dessert, too."

"All right," she said, doubtfully.  "But I wouldn't have chosen the sorbet."

"I know," I assured her.  "That's why I ordered it."  And it was.  After 20 years, my wife's food selections have become predictable.

When they came, I was vindicated.  As good as my chocolate mousse cheesecake was (and how could it have been bad?), her dessert was better.  The freshly made strawberry sorbet was complimented by diced candied orange peel, grated candied ginger, and a shot of Chambord lovingly poured over the top. Mint leaf for garnish.  She made cum noises the entire time she ate.

I only ate half of mine -- I knew we'd want the rest later, and I had plans for that cheesecake.  I finished off my coffee while the waiter brought me a box and the check.  I tossed my credit card out casually without looking at it.  I had a pretty good idea what it was supposed to be, and when he returned with my card and the slip, it was within a couple of bucks.  I added a 25% tip for outstanding service and then rose to help the Missus with her coat.

"I don't think I can walk," she moaned.

"Do you think you can dance?" I asked. She looked horrified.

"What?  What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you want to, I can arrange for there to be dancing," I said.  I had a contingency, a club on the other side of town that was hosting a Mardis Gras party and a Zydeco band that played until 1 am.  Mrs. Ironwood looked appalled at the thought.

"Jesus, Ian, I just ate half a cow!  And my feet hurt.  If you don't mind, I'd rather just go home."  We found out later that she had been nursing a broken heel, unbeknownst to her.  So it was probably a great idea we didn't go dancing.  I preferred her unspoken proposal.

"Home it is," I agreed.  I hadn't wanted to go dancing, either, but I wanted to have it as an option.  I also wanted her to be able to say " . . . and then he wanted to take me dancing, but I just had to have him instead!" to her best friends in the post-date post mortem.

On the way back out to the car I lit up the cigar.  Mrs. Ironwood leaned into it to inhale.  "It reminds me of my grandfather," she said, happily.  "Only once or twice a year, but usually at Christmas."  A good memory.  I enjoyed smoking it for five or ten minutes, and then when I stopped enjoying it I let it die.

"Damn, that thing stinks," she said, as we drove home.  "But I'm glad you did.  You earned a cigar for tonight!"

"So you had fun?" I asked.

"Did I have fun?  Best date ever!" she proclaimed.  "And now we get to the best part!"

It was late.  The highway was deserted.  No cops in sight.  I headed home at 70 mph.

NEXT: Phase VI Sex And Stuff

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Anatomy of the Perfect Red Pill Date: Phase IV Music

Continued from Phase III  Power Shopping

When it comes to music on a date, conventional wisdom says that Classic Rock or edgy Hip-Hop is your best bet if your goal is damp panties.  Personally, I find both a bit played-out, particularly Rock.  While that sounds blasphemous, the fact is that rock music is overtly sexual, with the pelvis-motivating back-beat encouraging primal responses and suggestive lyrics that leave no doubt as to what, exactly, the artist meant.  But there's no mystery in the slightest.  No intrigue.  No romance.  Rock is as subtle as a submachine gun.  Going to Rock music as the sound track to a date is trite and unimaginative.  Hip-hop, likewise.  And I despise Country music, no offense meant.  But Rock?  That’s like buying a cherry-red Camero when you turn 40: it's effective but so clichéd it’s painful.

Instead I turned back the clock and chose a selection of Big Band and Swing tunes, mostly with playfully teasing lyrics or sweet romantic music.  Now, you might be thinking “Gosh, that dude is White,” and you would be correct; but regardless of skin-tone or cultural background, Swing music has a lot to recommend it.

I listen to Swing a lot, since I tote my kids around every day.  Instead of blaring “Kids Bop” indulgently, like Mrs. Ironwood does, or letting them listen to modern pop music as the Niece habitually does, I prefer Swing music because the lyrics are squeaky-clean and the subject matter is usually straightforward “boy meets girl” stuff without any of the “Baby Lick My Love Pump” you get from anything produced after 1975.  As a result, my kids now can sing “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy” and “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” and a wide selection of Louis Prima, Frank Sinatra, and Bing Crosby.

I’m sure it will come in handy for them one day.  Don't ask me how.

There is a danger to playing Swing on a date, in that it reminds some women of their grandparents, which is not exactly “sex positive”.  On the other hand, the low-fidelity sound and the full orchestrations can set a romantic mood better than candlelight and Quaaludes. Had we been going somewhere casual, I may have gone with Delta Blues, Latin, or even Funk, but for Valabar’s the evening called for something classy.

Side Note: For those who feel that video games contribute nothing to our greater culture, please note that my current fetish for Swing comes from playing a game called Fallout 2, back around 1999 or so.  One of the great all-time classic post-apocalyptic games ever made, it began with a Louis Armstrong tune and maintained a retro 1950’s feel throughout the game.  More recently I played its much-evolved descendent, Fallout 3, which features an in-game radio station which plays a small selection of classic Swing tunes.  Since it’s customizable, players quickly added downloadable mods to the game, one of which was a delightful list of 1940s Swing music, most of which I’d never been exposed to in my Rock-saturated youth. Since that time I have explored the universe of Swing and come to appreciate it in a way I never would have expected.  So credit videogames with at least one important contribution to Western culture.

My playlist was carefully selected to inspire the right mood without doing anything to disrupt it.  I needed to stay away from the Andrews Sisters (whom I love but Mrs. Ironwood hates), but apart from that I had a lot of leeway.  So here’s the list I came up with, some (but not all) culled from Fallout:

1. Jazzy Interlude – Billy Munn (Fallout 3, a Swingin’ instrumental with an impressive fanfare, great way to start an eventful evening)

2. A Kiss To Build A Dream On - Louis Armstrong (The original Fallout 2 theme song, as poignant and romantic a tune as you could ask for, sung by one of the most expressive voices ever)

3. Daddy - Julie London's version - the Entitlement Princess' themesong, played playfully to tease my ordinarily low-maintenance wife.  She's about as opposite to this song as you could ask.

4. Jump, Jive & Wail - Louis Prima version, although Brian Setzer's is perfectly fine.  A good, peppy sort of swing tune that makes you want to jitterbug.

5. Wonderful Guy - Tex Bernake & Margaret Whiting (Also from the Fallout 3 soundtrack, and before that from South Pacific.  The perfect paen for a woman enjoying her man.

6. Nothing's Too Good For My Baby - Louis Prima & Keely Smith  An outstanding, playful and romantic duet about how much fun it is to be married.  No, really.  

7. Way Back Home - Bob Crosby.  The master of nostalgia sings one of the most nostalgic songs in history.  Another fine Fallout tune.

8. Hey Girl - Louis Prima & Keely Smith Another playful, romantic duet.

9. Sing Sing Sing -Benny Goodman, sung by Louis Prima.  The classic Swing anthem.

10. Gone Fishin' - Bing Crosby & Louis Armstrong.  Another classic duet between two masters. And it perfectly described the escapist element of the evening.  

The soundtrack got the evening's mood set properly: elegant, sophisticated, classic.  The pre-feminist playlist helped get my woman's mind back to a mystical time when women were all demure and eager to be attractive and men were strong, quiet, and manly.  The Fedora Age.  It provided the appropriate level of phonic foreplay during our drive out to Valabar's.  

We talked about a lot of things, held hands, and made out at the occasional stop light.  And when we arrived, a few minutes before our reservation time, we had a chance to relax, smoke a cigarette, and listen to the kind of dreamy tunes that seduced our grandmothers and great-grandmothers, back when Nazis and Commies were the bad guys and divorces were as rare as jet planes.

It was nice, and Mrs. Ironwood made a point to compliment me on my excellent selections.  They were like a long playful tease the entire way there, coupled with stolen kisses and brazen innuendo.  When I got out and helped her back into her coat, we even danced a moment in the parking lot before I took her by the hand and pulled her towards the barn-like structure that smelled so good.

Seduction Buff: SR +1

Next: Phase V Dinner

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Anatomy of the Perfect Red Pill Date: Phase III Power Shopping

Continued from Phase II Extraction

By the time we get to the mall, her mood has softened.  She’s accepted the fact that it’s going to be a fun, romantic night, and the unknown element is undeniably exciting.  I don’t bother opening the door for her – we’re still in “casual married people mode” but we do hold hands as we walk inside.

I lead her directly to the door of her favorite store.  I’ve done enough research to know which one in the mall was most likely to be able to have everything she needed.  She pulls me excitedly inside and starts to head for the clearance rack.  She worked several retail jobs in college and she always goes for the bargains first.

I didn’t budge, and when she tried to lead me away by the hand she came up short like a dog that’s run out of leash.  She looked at me, confused.  I dropped her hand and fished out my wallet.

“Here,” I said, handing over the card linked to my freelance account.  “I’m not going in with you.”

“Wha—?”  Her mouth is open.  Pricelessly adorable.

“You have exactly—” glance at watch “exactly ninety-four minutes to find and purchase attire suitable for going out to a five-star restaurant.”

“Huh?” she replied, eloquently.  Our conversation has attracted the attention of both of the store’s sales clerks, who wander close enough to overhear.

“Ninety minutes.  Five star restaurant.  I want you to look hot.”

“But . . . but . . . where are we going?”

“It doesn’t matter if we’re going to McDonalds in the food court,” I assured her.  “I want you to go buy a complete outfit, down to your unmentionables, and be dressed and ready to go in . . . ninety-three minutes, now.”

“Are you fucking serious?” she asks, shocked as she realizes that yes, indeed, I am fucking serious.

“Try to keep it under $300.00,” I say, casually, as I kiss her on the cheek.  “And try to be punctual.”

Then I turn on my heel and walk out.  No further explanation required.

I stole one last peek before I disappeared around the corner, and saw Mrs. Ironwood excitedly explaining what her mission was.

You see, I hate shopping.  

So does she, but she also understands how shopping is not only a necessary aspect of professional womanhood (personal presentation is very important in her field) as well as an essential social requirement for female socialization.  She’s not a “power shopper” by any means.  She eschews jewelry altogether (her father was a jeweler, once-upon-a-time . . . daddy issues) and she’s got weird feet, so she isn’t as mad about shoes as some women.  That doesn't mean I don’t have two-dozen pairs of her shoes in the bottom of my closet, but after talking to some other men, I only have two-dozen pairs in the bottom of my closet.  If my wife has an accessory fetish, it’s purses and handbags. 

But she hates trying to buy clothes.  Like most women, she’ll try on a dozen things and usually settle on one of the first things she saw.  But the entire process can take several excruciating hours and is, from a male perspective, hopelessly inefficient.  This way she has a) a deadline b) a budget and c) a very specific mission, to get an outfit for a night out.  Better for me, I wasn’t subjected to said excruciating hours standing by in quiet Betatude, bearing her purse as a symbol of my subjugation.  I went shopping myself.

I have a lovely black suit, tailored, that I picked up at a going-out-of-business sale a few years ago.  Classic cut, clean lines, and it’s suitable for nearly any occasion.  But my dress shirts were abysmal.  Believe it or not, most porn companies don’t require suit-and-tie for everyday business (and no, they don’t require raw-silk shirts opened to the waist and a couple of gaudy gold chains peeking through your chest hair, either – I usually wear jeans and a t-shirt).  I hadn’t bought a new, nice shirt in ages.  No funerals or court dates lately, and the last wedding we went to I was performing the ceremony and wearing a clerical collar.

It only takes me moments to run out to the car and grab the garment bag with my suit and shoes in it.   I roll into Macy’s, feeling like John Travolta in the opening scene of Saturday Night Fever (minus the paint can).  You can almost hear the disco music as I strut.

Back to the Men’s Department – wouldn’t you know, they’re having a buy-one, get-one sale on shirts and ties.  It takes me all of ten minutes to find a white shirt and a light gray shirt in my size.  Another ten to find a belt and two ties – one blue and silver, one gray and silver.  I look longingly at a brown felt crushable fedora, but it not only doesn’t go with my outfit, it’s far too expensive.  I’d drop that kind of dough on a blocked black fedora in my size, perhaps.  I let my own hamster spin for a moment, and then shut it down when I look at my watch.  I’m on a Mission.

I pay for my stuff, spending about a hundred bucks, and then use the changing room to put on my suit.  I go with the gray shirt and tie, as it brings out the gray in my eyes and that tends to inspire more romance than the blue in my eyes.  More importantly, gray and black make me feel dangerous and sexy.  I come out a few moments later and get appreciative looks from the dumpy older saleswoman and the horny old queen at the register.  Admiration from both sides of the gender spectrum let me know I look good.

Self-Confidence Buff: Objective SR +1

If I went in as John Travolta, I come out as Frank Sinatra.  I own the joint.  I don’t try to disguise the even more confident strut in my step as I cross the mall.  I absorb a few more desiring glances along the way as I make my way into only bar in the mall.

Why a bar?  I was dressed and ready to go, but there was still more than forty-five minutes to her deadline.  I called to confirm our reservation while the bartender brought me a Jamesons on the rocks.  Only one drink, but the smoky taste of peat-fired Irish whiskey is like an instant shot of masculinity in my mouth. 

Side Note: Gentlemen, when approaching a bar to purchase a drink, know what you’re going to order from the moment your foot crosses the threshold.  There is no worse negative Beta presentation than standing in front of a bar with a perplexed look on your face while you mentally debate the merits of some chick beer with an orange in it or an apple-tini.  KNOW YOUR FUCKING POISON.

You enter a bar, you walk confidently to the bar, cash or card in hand, you take up as much space at the bar as you can to attract attention, you patiently wait while the patrons with bigger boobs than yours are served, and then you order your drink, decisively and resolutely.  Make it simple: a highball is about as complicated as you want to get.  For presentation’s sake, stick to a single liquor on the rocks or neat.  I usually recommend against beer on Date Night simply because of the awkward potential for gas.  “Jameson’s, Rocks,” and a self-assured toss of your head should be all the discussion with the bartender you need.  But it doesn’t matter what it is, as long as you nail it and move on.

I nursed my drink for half an hour, checking with the sitter, checking email for the final time in the evening, and checking traffic on the way to the restaurant.  Gotta love a smartphone. 

At fifteen-minutes until deadline I finished my drink and went outside for a smoke.  I was relaxed, I looked good, I smelled good, dammit, I felt good.  I felt like James Bond in that suit.  I tried to nurse that vibe, incorporate it into my presentation.  Bond.  James Bond.

I arrived at the store ten minutes early, on the off-chance she was ready.  She wasn’t, of course, but I got to spend that last ten minutes bantering and flirting with the two salesladies while my wife got dressed.  They were positively gushing with how freakin’ romantic I was and how lucky she was to have me . . . with her overhearing every word in the dressing room not twelve feet away.

Preselection Buff: Relative SR +1

PLUS, she got the undivided attention of two salesladies who had elected themselves her honorary handmaidens that night.  She got to feel like a princess – a stressed, anxious princess trying to get her Spanx on before deadline, but a princess nonetheless.  The attention paid to her femininity by those two women helped inflate her own self-confidence, pushing up her own Sex Rank by at least a point.

When she got out . . . it was well worth the wait.  She looked gorgeous.  A pretty white top with large blue flowers and yellow highlights, something that suggested far more cleavage than she was showing (or even has).  Tight black skirt, knee-length, and black hose.  With her work shoes, which I think are the most attractive on her, and her hair and make-up fixed . . . she looked good enough to molest right there and then.  She had accomplished her Mission, and with three minutes to spare.

“Twirl for me,” I instructed, smiling, with just a little mocking in my voice.  Instead of a snappy retort she swallowed and turned around.  That skirt did amazing things for her ass.  “Outstanding,” I pronounced, “you look gorgeous!”

Blush.  I’ll take the point on that.  “Thank you,” she says, demurely.  “Oh my God, you changed into a suit?  Did you buy a suit?  Jesus, Ian, how much—”

“So much that you’re going to be feeling very grateful later,” I say, confidently.  She blushes.  The ladies behind the counter giggle girlishly.  

“Well, you look HOT,” she says, putting lusty emphasis on the last word.  I give the sales ladies a glance, and then strike an overly-dramatic GQ pose.

“What do you think, ladies?  Am I earning my hourly rate?”

They assure me that yes, they would indeed rip off my clothes and hump me until we’re all sore, in politely-worded feminine code.  Any doubt about the Preselection buff is gone.  Mrs. Ironwood’s eyes are flashing and she’s biting her lip.

 I’m about to hand them my credit card when I see a pile of panties towards the back.  I stride over and very quickly select three pairs (to qualify for the sale price) that I like, two black, one nude, and that I think will be both sexy and comfortable – and yes, I know the correct size.  I’ve done my research. 

“Add these,” I say, casually, and they do.  Total bill is just under $200.  Even with her padding it a little with a few hosiery items.  Mrs. Ironwood has done well.

“You’re buying me panties?” she asks, surprised.

I shrug.  “Who says they’re for you?” I quip, as I grab the bags.  I offer her my elbow, and she takes it.  She thanks the ladies profusely for their invaluable assistance.  She feels even more like a princess as we’re leaving.

“So you got me all dressed up to go to Ruby Tuesday’s?” she chuckles.  “That’s adorkably romantic!”

“Yes, it would be,” I say, as I lead her firmly past the mall restaurant and out into the parking lot.  “But I upgraded from ‘adorkable’ to ‘elegant’.  Hope you don’t mind.”

“Ian,” she says, suddenly back on unsure ground.  “If we’re not . . .where the hell are we going?”

“To dinner,” I say, as I open the passenger side door and help her in.  She needs help, too.  Between the Spanx and the skirt, she can barely walk, let alone mount a SUV.

“Are you going to blindfold me?” she jokes.

“We don’t have time,” I say, as I close the door.  “We have a 9:30 reservation.”

That’s got her attention.  Usually the only restaurants we go to where you have to make a reservation involve giant mechanical instrument-playing mice and really bad, over-priced kids' pizza.

“So where are we going?” she pleads, excitedly.  “And who the hell makes a 9:30 dinner reservation?”

“I do,” I say, smugly, as I slide into the driver’s seat.  “And you make that late a reservation when it’s Valabar’s.”

“We’re going to Valabar’s?” she asks, excitedly – and no, before you Google it, that’s a made-up name.  The name “Valabar’s” is from the classic Steven Brust Dragaera fantasy series, and it describes a restaurant of surpassing excellence.  I use it here to guard both my identity and its.  But when you hear “Valabar’s”, just imagine the swankiest joint in your town.  That’s the place.  “Well why didn’t you say so?” she asks, reverently. 

“Because that would have ruined the surprise,” I point out.

“Oh.”   She thinks for a moment, and then grabs my hand.  “Yeah, I guess it would.  We’re going to Valabar’s!” she says, excitedly, and giggles.  Yes, it’s that big a deal. 

“We’ve got twenty minutes before we get there,” I say, casually, as I crank the engine.  “Music?”

NEXT: Phase IV Music

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