I’ve got this not-quite platonic friend called Rob who, sometimes, when he’s telling me about all the pretty ladies he failed to seduce as a teenager, gives a long, disappointed sigh, shakes his head in a slow, sad rhythm – like he’s an exhausted middle-class father who’s just found out his son’s been stealing from the sweetshop – and says, ‘do you know what was wrong with me back then? I had no game.’
When Rob talks about ‘game’ he’s using gangsta street slang. He does that sometimes, and I am down with it. But I’m aware that you might not be quite as cutting-edge inner-city as me and Rob – which is why I went on urbandictionary.com and found this definition to help you along:
High levels of ‘no game’ [are] evidenced by frequent failure to engage the opposite sex in meaningful exchanges which lead to dates[.] Often result[s] in the person with lack of game becoming bitterly angry at the world and nitpicking individuals for reasons such as ‘bitches having boyfriends.’
What the urban dictionary doesn’t explicitly mention, but I think you’ll agree is suggested, is that game is all about one’s ability to ensnare members of the opposite sex using the methods of flattery and flirtation. On reflection, despite the fact I didn’t know him then, I can see why Rob might have had problems in this area as a teenager – although, as I’m sure he’d want me to let you know, his game is all good now. Or so I’ve been told.
My game, however, is questionable.
I’ve certainly been known to exhibit bitterness and anger, often in public. And I have most definitely nitpicked bitches for having boyfriends. Loads of times. It’s basically all I do, other than try to beat my high score on 94 seconds.
Don’t get me wrong, I excel at flattery and flirtation – meaningful exchanges are totally my thing, due to the hypnotic power of my big blue eyeballs – but I also suffer from a crippling emotional paradox. I believe, with all of my beating heart, that every straight man I meet finds me so sexually desirable it’s all he can do to keep himself from ejaculating right there on the spot. Yet, at the same time, I also believe, with just as much of my beating heart, that I’m so undesirable it causes men’s libidos to shrivel into tiny little raisins with legs and crawl out the nearest door.
This does not make it easy to determine whether flirtatious exchanges are likely to escalate into romance. Which has, inevitably, led to some ethically questionable behaviour on my part. Like, for example, when I went through that phase of getting off with unattractive men because I didn’t realise they were taking my fluttering Disney eyelashes and relentless cleavage exposure seriously. And then, by the time I did, I was either too drunk or too grateful for the attention to do anything to halt the proceedings.
Nowadays, I don’t get off with anyone. I can no longer tell when I meet new men whether there is a spark that might ignite a romantic fire, or whether there is indifference or repulsion. Every exchange is filled with the same jittery blah – like white noise. Mostly, unless there’s free wine, I go home and watch music videos on the internet.
And this is a problem, because, back in the days before I was emotionally crippled, the main thing that used to attract me to a person was how much they were attracted to me. I find men sexy who find me sexy. So long as they don’t find me sexy in a creepy way. Or have a beard. Or a wife. Or a date of birth earlier than January 1974.
I need to work at turning my meaningful exchanges into sex or romance. But I have absolutely no idea what a woman of my age and experience might do to develop better game.
If you’ve got any advice, I’d love to hear it.
Or you could try your game on me – so long as you meet the strict criteria I detailed above.
And remember, I like wine. And whisky.
*Image by Salvatore Vuno at freedigitalphotos.net