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The Ones You Can't Have

This is classic. A ubiquitous situation. An experience that everyone not only goes through, but deep down a situation that everyone prefers. And they prefer it because they love the chase. They love the challenge of achieving something that is unobtainable. It requires breaking social norms, ignoring staggering odds, and disregarding written rules, policies, and ethics.

 

The girl with the boyfriend. The married woman. The friend's sister or cousin. Your boss. Your co-worker. Your subordinate. Your doctor. Your teacher. Your roommate. The one a little bit too old or a little bit too young. The one that won't give it up until marriage. The lesbian. The one that is your second cousin's cousin so you're not really sure if you're blood-related or not but you'd really like to find out.

 

They are the forbidden fruits. And they're forbidden because they taste SO good, but it's SO wrong. Sometimes.

 

Forbidden fruits I've tasted: The girl with the boyfriend (twice, oops, don't hurt me). The friend's sister or cousin (it was the cousin). My subordinate (lost my virginity to that one). The one that won't give it up until marriage (she didn't give it up, but she came DAMN close, and god it was worth it). The lesbian (she didn't seem like one in bed). The one that is your second cousin's cousin so you're not really sure if you're blood-related or not but you'd really like to find out (we found out, and we weren't, so we got together. Twice).

 

One might say I'm addicted to the forbidden fruits, but who wouldn't be? Everyone loves a sexy story. After the ones I've listed above that I've achieved, that leaves: The married woman (I won't go there, I have boundaries), my teacher (not likely to have a teacher at this point in my life), my boss (have yet to have a hot boss), the co-worker (although the subordinate kind of counts), the one that's a little bit too young or old (willing to give this a shot, as long as it's legal), and then there's...

 

...the doctor.

 

At the moment, I have an extremely hot therapist. Several months ago, my fifty year old therapist was laid off, and my case was transferred to this young, blonde-haired, conservative Jewish woman with a body that I have a lot of difficulty not staring at during our sessions.

 

She's also sweet as can be and doesn't wear a ring. I checked. Now, I know that it's not really ethical to be dating, or even consider dating, the person that is trying to help you through any psychological issues, but a person wants what a person wants. And I want her. I even told her this. After about three sessions, I let her know that I needed to be completely honest with her in the sessions, so I said, flat out, "I'm very attracted to you."

 

I thought she would immediately refer me to another therapist and I'd have to start the whole damn process over again. Fact of the matter was, though, I couldn't keep it locked up inside of me. Not in therapy. I need to be able to say whatever I want to her. Surprisingly, she didn't refer me to someone else. She asked me if I'd like to be referred to someone else if I wasn't comfortable talking to her. And I said..."No, uh...I'd like to keep seeing you."

 

So I've kept seeing her. And every session we continue to look each other dead in the eye.

 

I have no idea how to approach this. But the cogs are turning. She's actually really good at what she does, and it helps me, so it's not something I really want to ruin...but what if there's something even better?

 

I'll keep you updated. This may be one of those that I really can't have. But, as she has taught me, I don't give myself enough credit. I've got to think positively. :)

 

-Riley out.

Get Their Attention...By Any Means Necessary

I've been sporting a beard lately. Not like this bushy thing that a monkey could hold onto, but some scruff, a nice layer of stubble. And people, ladies in particular, have actually been responding to it. There have been a couple times in my life when I've decided to try some sort of a beard...I had a goatee for a few months in college. Then I saw what I looked like in pictures with it and realized it was absolutely hideous. It's funny how things can look different on a camera than in the mirror.

 

I had never liked my mustache at all though. I always felt it made me look kind of sleazy. But, that changed when I got my kidney stone. Yes, that's right, tweny-four and I managed to get a kidney stone. They're genetic apparently, so I can thank my father and grandfather for that, and you can get them at any age. Point being, I was bed-ridden for four days from the pain, without giving a shit about shaving. It's not uncommon for me to go a few days without shaving the stubble on my cheeks and chin, but every day I shave my mustache. But not this time. After I was better, I sort of like what was becoming of my face...so I kept it. And things changed.

 

I looked older. I felt older. People started responding to me differently. It felt nice. And when I had to shave it off for an interview, it was the first time in my life that I wasn't happen with my clean shaven baby face. It was as if I shaved five years off. Scruff made me rougher. It made me distinguished. It made me happy.

 

But that's not what I truly mean by "Get their attention by any maens necessary."

 

I was at a party last weekend. My friend Cahill's little sister was throwing a house party. So, she would have her college-aged friends, and it was me and my alumni friends. Sure to be a dichotomous situation. And it was. It was awkward, and quite split up, much like a high school dance, until most of us got a fair amount of alcohol into our systems. Then, there was a knock at the door:

 

BANG, BANG! I'm the guy closest to the door, so I decide to open it. And, note, I've got a nice buzz going, and I'm pretty friendly and outgoing (interpreted as annoying) when buzzed. I open the door, and standing there is this awkward, lanky looking kid with somewhat of a comb-over holding two pies.

 

"PIES! You can come in!" Is the first thing I say to this kid, who didn't seem entertained by me. I was so captivated by the idea of consuming the pies that this kid was holding that I quickly ushered him inside and slammed the door behind him. It wasn't a moment after I slammed the door that I heard "HEY!" and a pounding on the other side.

 

First though: "Shit. I slammed the door on a girl."

Second thought, after opening the door and seeing her not too pleased reaction: "Shit. I slammed the door on the hottest girl at the party."

 

I tried to apologize to her, claiming ignorance that I hadn't seen her without mentioning being distracted by the pies, but she whisked by me in a huff, with no intention of speaking to me again.

 

I kinda didn't care...because I had a nice buzz going...but I kinda cared...because this party lacked any attractive girls and I just pissed off the only one. Quick, Riley, fix this!

 

I approached this girl as genuinely and as confidently as I could, introducing myself, apologizing myself for my indiscretion, and attempting to use my graduate status and worldly knowledge to gain this girl's rapport. Someway, somehow, perhaps it was the confidence left over from when I went to the club and actually got a girl to hit on me, perhaps it was the beard, or perhaps it was the alcohol alone...we ended up making out during the course of a game of King's Cup no thanks to a gay man picking an ace and making a rule that you've got to kiss somone when you drink.

 

And she chose me. And ever since the party, she has not left me alone. Too bad she goes to college in Delaware. Oh, and I found out later that she's nineteen...oops.

 

We joke constantly about me slamming the door in her face, and wondered if the night would have gone differently had that not happened. Would she even have cared enough to talk to me? Would I have cared enough to talk to her? We're not sure, but I'm pretty positive that there is a lesson here:

 

Get the girl's attention, by any means necessary. I mean, if you're going to do something that will potentially shine a negative light on you, make sure you've got a plan to redeem yourself. But the fact of the matter is, make her remember you somehow. Because if she remembers you, even if it's in a slightly bad/accidental way...you're already in her brain. :)

 

-Riley out.

The Game - Practice at G Lounge

I've read THE GAME. A ton of guys my age have, since it was on the NY Times bestsellers list for a while. I'm sure most people have also seen THE PICKUP ARTIST on VH1, which takes all the concepts from THE GAME and tosses them into a ridiculous reality television show. The book itself was a thrilling read, and while the notion of being able to pick up any kind of woman that I wanted was intoxicating, I couldn't help but feel like THE GAME had something sour going for it. The most redeeming factor of the entire story was that the protagonist, Styles, actually found love at the end of all his adventures in random pickups and meaningless sex.

 

The methods protrayed in THE GAME were just that. A game. They were created for the sole purpose of manipulating women into believing certain things about you, and therefore coaxing them into bed. There was very little about what you're supposed to do after you've actually nailed the girl.

 

People are often astounded by my knowledge on the subject of relationships without actually having been in a serious one. Among friends, I'm the "go to" man when smooth sailing relationships are about to hit rough seas. And it's great that I'm able to help them! I just can't manage to get to the relationship part myself. And after much rumination, I decided that even though THE GAME works for some...it doesn't work for me. I would have to find another way to get past the initial roadblocks of meeting women.

 

Which brings me to last Friday night. My buddy, Ed, texts me: "G Lounge tonight." I was fully prepared to chill at my sister's apartment with me, my pet rabbit, my laptop, and some HBO. Y'know, get some writing done, relax without my fucking parents being around. A chill Friday. But, I was feeling a little sorry for myself, having no set plans on this Black Friday, so I inquired further about G Lounge.

 

Ed: "C'mon man, it's gonna be a good time. I'm meeting up with some friends who are celebrating some girl's birthday there."

 

I scoffed a bit. I didn't really enjoy clubs, especially ones as pretentious as G Lounge. I had never been, but my brother and sister frequent G Lounge, and if they frequent a club, then I know exactly what kind of crowd is going to be there.

 

Kurt: "Is there a cover?"

Ed: "Probably $20."

 

OY! I'm a little broke at the moment, so spending twenty bucks to get into a place I don't really want to go, to be surrounded by people I don't really like, have a shitty time, and spend ten dollars on every drink, didn't really sound like a great idea. I told Ed that I was probably going to pass on the invitation and just spend the night by myself.

 

Thirty seconds after I hung up with Ed, I stopped myself. All I could think was, "Wow. That was really, really negative. Why did I automatically think I was going to have a shitty time? Why did I automatically think I wouldn't like the people? Why did I automatically hate a club I'd never been to?"

 

Fuck it. I called Ed back.

 

Kurt: "Ed. I realized that I was just being extremely negative, and I decided that I'm not going to be anymore. Let's down a six pack and go have a fucking good time."

Ed: "YES! Can't wait to see you buddy!"

 

I hadn't seen Ed in months, so I at least owed him my company. We met up at my sister's apartment, shared a six pack, and had a good time catching up. The slight buzz had kicked in and we were ready for the club. Laughing, smiling, walking confidently the whole way there, I knew I had myself a great attitude and a great wing man. I told myself I was going to do three things this evening:

 

1.) Walk slow.

2.) Smile. A lot.

3.) Never be the first to break eye contact when you lock eyes with a girl.

 

And the worked. Before these tiny changes began to take effect, Raphael, Ed's friend whom we met up with, was an apparent ladies' man, and provided us with small commentaries on how to take advantage of the club's social atmosphere. He talked about never remaining in one spot for too long, keep moving, like a shark. He pointed out traps that girls laid, ones that were used to turn guys down in order to boost self-esteem, other that were used to get guys to buy them drinks. In a way, it really was a game that I couldn't avoid. And all of a sudden this just felt like practice, like it wasn't the real thing. And any remaining anxiety was swept away.

 

Simply smiling and walking slow was boosting my confidence. It made me feel calmer, more relaxed. And every time I locked eye with a girl, gave them a tiny smile, and they looked away before I did, I felt even stronger. They were the intimidated ones, not me. When the girls started to smile back, I knew I was getting somewhere.

 

My first interaction of the night wasn't particularly spectacular. The girl's method of getting my attention was basically checking me and spilling my drink all over her. She was so drunk that everything she slurred made it sound like she was speaking another language. The first thing she said to me was: "Somebody spilled their drink all over me."

 

My retort was: "Uh, yeah. That was my drink, because you just bum rushed me."

 

I don't think she understood, because she started drunkenly caressing my arm and spouting out intoxicated gibberish. I managed to ignore her long enough that she got the hint and went back to dancing with her friends. What happened next was the highlight of my evening. I was dancing, by myself, because I was feeling free and comfortable enough to, when I caught eyes with a girl who belonged to a bachelorette party. I kept my gaze until she was the one that looked away. I smiled at my small success. Moments later, she comes up to me and yells over the loud music: "Why were you looking at me?"

 

And my instantaneous, and surprising, response was: "Because I think you're pretty."

 

She laughed. Not in the "oh my god, that's so cheesy" way, but in the "oh my god, I'm totally flattered" kind of way. And this girl didn't leave me alone for the next half hour. We danced. We talked. She introduced me to her friends. She complimented me on how I dressed. She complimented me on the beard that I'm growing. And when it was time for her to leave with her party, without numbers exchanged, I didn't mind. It wasn't about that. It was about practicing the first steps. And I felt great that I had improved just a little.

 

Ed hooked up with some random girl on the dance floor, also not getting her number. He, too, was on the quest to learn, so that was a major milestone for him as well. We laughed with one another, got piss drunk, and were both really glad I had decided to come out.

 

The night led us to a 3:00am inebriated meal at McDonald's, where Ed made fun of me for recently having a kidney stone, and then proceeded to ask me if I had any percosets left. Neither him nor I are drug users of any variety, so it was funny when I asked him how much he was willing to pay for them. He said five bucks a pill. I said twenty. He shouted that that was WAY too expensive, but he didn't know what the hell anything cost, and neither did I. This led to us asking a black guy who was selling pills IN the McDonald's how much percosets go for, while he kept on thinking we actually wanted to buy percosets from him. Some other guy started making comments in the middle of our drunken exchange, which caused the black man to preach something about Obama, creating a massive alcoholic applause, during which Ed and I laughed hysterically, before he left.

 

That ended our night. We never found out how much percosets go for. But we decided we needed to do this more often. The consensus was tri-weekly.

 

Because we're both too broke for weekly.

 

-Kurt Riley

An Introduction

I'll try to make this as brief as possible. Nobody's really interested in my entire history, and I tend to go on and on as my thoughts develop, so let's dive straight into it, shall we?

I lost my virginity at 21. Some people don't ever lose their virginity. So, not so bad, right?! She was my pseudo-kinda-sorta-but not really, maybe, almost, slightly considering the idea of being my girlfriend. And then I told her I loved her.

Fail.

I used to throw the word love around quite a bit. Took me a few years...ten, maybe...to finally figure out that 1.) Girls didn't really enjoy that term, at least not early on, and 2.) I was never really in love in the first place. Way to go, Riley!

It also took me a really long time to figure out that telling a girl you need to talk to her, sitting her down, and apologizing for the awkwardness prior to revealing the fact that you have feelings for her and then hoping she'll be like "OMG, I'm SO glad you said that because I totally feel the same" just...doesn't work. Ever. It's never worked once. I've also done it over email and the phone. And each time I hoped that maybe...MAYBE...this time it would be different.

But it never was.

I've never had a serious relationship, as the above makes obvious. I've had sex with a whopping two, and enjoyed other sex-related activities with less than ten. Now, I'm not saying I want to turn myself into a man-whore...because I don't. I merely want the opportunities to engage sexually with the opposite sex to be more frequent. I want women to want me. Which, right now, they don't. Is that so much to ask? I hardly think so. I don't find myself that unattractive. I went through a bit of a cocoon stage during puberty where I looked absolutely horrific, but once college rolled around, I felt like I was a fairly decent looking human being! But my psych was all screwed up. All my previous notions of how I looked and how I was lingered. I was still this awkward, bumbling, socially inept fool that signed a fifty year lease in the friend zone. Well, it's about damn time that I broke that lease, that I rewired the way I thought about myself, and learned a few tricks of the dating trade. It's time to annihilate the factor that caused of all those nights I spent with just my hand. The Riley Factor.

I think that's a solid intro. The stories begin tomorrow.

-Kurt Riley