Get Bold

how to date the women of your dreams

She was so far out of my league, she was playing a different sport. She was dining at the table next to mine, with long black hair, perky breasts and the eyes of a jaguar. Souls have been bartered for less. I was on a date with someone else. But even if I hadn't been, my natural inclination is to gawk and do nothing. Instead of seizing moments like this, I seize during them. Besides, jaguar-eyes was sitting with a pack of three equally gorgeous friends, kryptonite to even a Superman of pickups. My evening at the restaurant was the work of my friend Roy Silverberg, who was dating a Chinese woman and suggested we double with one of her co-workers. He'd checked out my date before-hand. ''Dude, she's hot,'' he assured me. A blind date is like a rubber in your wallet. It's a good idea that never pays off. So I devised a code with Roy. If my date was as hot as he said, we'd take the girls to a nice sushi place. Otherwise, I'd suggest Lucky Cheng's. Even a bad date can be salvaged by Lucky Cheng's, a New York City theme restaurant where rude transvestites warble show tunes while serving cheap Chinese food. It's so loud two people can go an entire dinner without addressing each other. When Roy and I picked up our dates, a beautiful Asian girl opened the door to greet us. I could not believe my luck. Then she walked over and kissed Roy. Right behind her was my date, who looked like Star Trek's Mr. Sulu in a skirt. I didn't even have to say it. ''Lucky Cheng's it is!'' Roy announced. ''I'm sorry,'' he whispered, laughing, as we walked to his car. ''I guess I didn't get that close a look at her.'' At my recommendation, he has since has Lasik surgery. Even the 13 sakes I downed could not make Mr. Sulu attractive. But they had an unintended effect, as I discovered when the goddesses and their jaguar queen took the table next to ours. Regular Corey would have said nothing. But I was now 13-sake Corey. I began strategizing a hit under Sulu's radar. (When you're on a date, you can't just ask the stranger sitting next to you what her sign is.) I grabbed a matchbook and scribbled on the inside cover.

''Remember Titanic?'' I wrote. ''I'm Leo, on your left. Meet me at the bar in five minutes.'' I discreetly asked our waiter (Ethel Merman in a bustier and garter belt) to deliver the note.

I had somehow tapped into the part of the male brain that works only when it's too late to matter. It's the part that tells you exactly what to say to the cop while you're reading the ticket on the drive home. Getting crocked was my key to this vast tactical warehouse.

I flashed queen jaguar a look after she read my message. She got up when I did, and her heels clicked behind me. Was she RSVPing, or had coincidence placed me directly in her path to the ladies' room? Was this actually happening, or was I about to see my dead grandmother at the end of a tunnel?

Once at the bar, I suavely swiveled to face the moment of truth. ''Hi,'' I said, beaming and looking up four inches. ''I'm Corey.''

''Monica,'' she answered, offering a finely manicured hand. She was 22 years old, 5'8'' without heels, and modeled for Elite. She had moved to the Big Apple only six months before from San Antonio. I could not have ordered a more perfect girl from a catalog. And don't think I haven't tried.

Me, I'm 35 years old, 5'6'' and remind people of David Spade without the fame or money. But the fact that my head was level with her breasts didn't freak me out. I was 13 sakes tall. Besides, a lofty woman is a short man's only shot at normal-size offspring. After talking a bit, I found Monica to be really nice. Actually, come to think of it, she was a little selfish, spoiled and bitchy. But she was a tall model who didn't appear to think that sex with me was out of the question. That's nice enough for me.

''Come downstairs,'' I told her, grabbing her hand like DiCaprio whisking Kate Winslet to the third-class section. ''It's haunted down there.''

The basement of Lucky Cheng's is an old bathhouse from the 1800s. One of the original tubs is still there, converted to an aquarium. Years ago, I read about the resident ghosts, former patrons who allegedly died while bathing. Monica and I peeked into old bathrooms and tried opening locked doors. Just because people are dead doesn't mean they can't help a guy get laid.

''Yes, I've heard whispers late at night,'' said the bartender (Cher with a potbelly and hairy arms). ''I definitely detect a presence here.''

Monica was excited. The occult was her thing. I detected a presence in my Levi's.

''There was a reason I was supposed to meet you here,'' Monica gushed. ''You're the first guy I've met who's open to this type of stuff.''

What followed was a dam burst of declarations about auras, chakras and crystals. I smiled and nodded--whatever Monica believed in, so did I. The loonier the girl, the more of a chance she'd do me.

Because I was still 13-sake Corey, I reached up and planted a kiss on Monica's full red lips. Hard. She kissed back. Was this my life, or had I fallen asleep and woken up in Matt Damon's?

''Ah, straight love,'' commented the hostess (Buddy Hackett in silk panties and a push-up bra).

For a few days, I stuck with the premise that it was the matchbook note that got me in with Monica. Or perhaps it was the haunted-mansion tour. So I began asking friends for their best pickup gimmicks. Their suggestions included card tricks, fake British accents and a childhood candy dispenser.

''What's more innocent than Pez?'' said Hollywood movie producer Chris Boehm. ''You can choose different heads and be any Looney Tunes or DC Comics character, depending on your mood. It's all about how you want to project yourself in the form of Pez.''

Obviously, these gimmicks were ridiculous. The reason they worked, I realized, is the insane confidence required to pull them off. I had that confidence during my entire first meeting with Monica.

''I'm on a bad blind date,'' I told her. ''I need to go back upstairs. But give me your number. Next time I'm in New York, we're going out.''

I left no room for her to say no or ask for my number instead. I told her that although I lived in LA, I return to my hometown at least twice a month (only my first in an intricate web of false-hoods). In fact, I come back only for July fourth and New Year's, and whenever a relative dies. But Monica would probably find a boyfriend if I waited longer than two weeks to act. And I would cross the country naked on an emu for a date with a girl half as hot as she is.

She grabbed my cell phone and programmed in her number. The first available storage slot was #37 (a relief, since I appeared to have 36 friends).

Guys, if you think the secret to scoring with the world's hottest women is anything other than confidence, please send me a portion of the money I'm going to save you on sports cars, gym memberships and Rogaine. A man can go weeks without a shower and let the hair from his nose grow into dreadlocks. As long as he is confident, beautiful women will give him the green light.

Like me, you may require alcohol to reach your confidence zone. And that's fine. But let me share some tips to remember once you're there, courtesy of the babe magnets I know.

(1) Stay focused. No woman wants to commit to a babe-gawker. If you're surrounded by loads of women, pay exclusive attention to the one you're most interested in. Even if Pamela Anderson bounces by, you must pretend to be less interested in her than you were in your junior high school lunch lady--the one who spooned string beans onto your plate.

''Think of yourself as a lion,'' says Ross Kuflik, a New York chiropractor. ''You're after that one antelope in a herd of 50. You have to focus on that one. You're not going to let it get out of your sight or be confused by all the other antelope running across your field of vision.'' Ross recalls one particular hunt. It was about five years ago on Fire Island (the heterosexual part). ''I was at an outdoor bar during happy hour,'' he says. ''I saw a girl sitting at the bar, surrounded by hundreds of people. Something about her face and figure attracted me. From the moment I walked into the place, I kept my eyes on her eyes. I walked over--crossing through all these people--and introduced myself.'' Ross and the girl dated for a few months. ''The reason I know that my approach worked is because of what I found out later. One of the friends she'd been with--someone I hadn't even noticed--told her, 'Wow, when that guy came in, he didn't care who else you were with. Nothing distracted him.' They considered that very flattering.''

(2) Seize the moment. Two ships passing in the night will probably never see each other again, even if one ship gets the other's phone number. If the chemistry is there, push for a moment right now. Have your first date and first kiss the same night you meet.

My friend Jim, a Los Angeles software designer, was in San Francisco recently. He checked out of his hotel room and walked into a Taco Bell to grab a bite. Before he ordered he went to use the bathroom. He knocked on the door and a voice responded, ''Someone's in here!''

''It turned out to be this incredible girl,'' Jim says. ''I apologized for (continued on page 159) get bold (continued from page 82) interrupting and noticed that she had some bags. I asked her what she'd been shopping for.'' This began a surprisingly intimate conversation. The girl was 26, bisexual and having a nasty fight with her girlfriend. ''She said she was on her way to see a movie by herself,'' Jim says. ''So I offered to go with her, and we walked to the theater to see what was showing. In front of the theater were some benches where we sat down and hung out.'' Jim started rubbing the girl's shoulders. ''She said, 'That feels great,' and then I asked if we could go someplace where I could give her a real massage.'' Jim and the lady checked back into his hotel and, as he put it, ''two hours after walking into a Taco Bell, I was banging the beans out of some stranger on the balcony.'' Later she told him she didn't normally do that type of thing, but that the timing was right.

''Everything is about timing,'' Jim says. ''If I had just asked for her number, I don't think I'd have seen her again.'' A week later, Jim and the girl flew to Las Vegas. ''We went to a strip club so she could try to pick up a girl,'' he says.

(3) Feign sexual disinterest. Adam Glass is a Hollywood screenwriter who, like me, grew up about 30 miles from Manhattan and 40 miles from good-looking. At a party several years ago, he flirted his eyebrows off with Jane, a beautiful blonde who came from money. She was polite to him, but nothing more. He downed several Buds for inspiration, then left when she did, hoping to score points during the walk. ''I asked her where she grew up and where she went to school,'' Adam says. ''Out of nowhere, she turned around and said, 'Look, I just got out of a relationship.''' (This is female code for ''Your approach has not worked. I have already decided I will never sleep with you.'') Adam lashed back, or at least the Budweiser did. ''First of all, I was not hitting on you,'' he lied. ''You seemed like a nice person and I was just trying to have a conversation. And to be honest, you're not my type.'' His assertiveness struck Jane. "She apologized," Adam remembers. ''She said she gets hit on all the time. She and her friends were about to jump into a cab, and she invited me along.'' Adam politely declined, walking down to the subway. ''So I'm waiting for the train, and guess who comes running down?'' he reports. Adam spent the rest of the weekend having sex with the beautiful blonde in a penthouse overlooking Central Park.

(4) Playfully insult. If the previous approaches get you nowhere fast, your intended may have low self-esteem: She thinks something is wrong with any guy who's interested in her. This calls for a more creative approach. My friend Rick Yanko, an actor, told me how he'd nailed a gorgeous woman who dined regularly with her boyfriend at the New York City restaurant where he once tended bar. ''A lot of other guys hit on her,'' Rick remembers. ''They told her she was beautiful, and her boyfriend didn't seem to mind. But I decided to be different.'' Rick's strategy was to call the girl by the wrong name--a different one each time they conversed. ''I knew it bugged her, because after two weeks her boyfriend said she was really upset that I kept calling her by the wrong name,'' says Rick, who apologized and said it wouldn't happen again. When Elaine joined her boyfriend later that evening, Rick made sure he was busy. He then called her Helen, the closest he had ever come to her correct name. She seethed. ''One night she showed up at 3:30 A.M. when her boyfriend was out of town for the weekend. We went to her place,'' Rick says. ''I called her by the right name when she had me in her mouth.''

(5) Limit your drinks. This is one I learned on my first date with Monica. In the cab en route, I downed a foamy six-pack to summon the person I thought she really wanted to be with: 13-sake Corey. It came in especially handy when the waiter started messing with me during dinner. ''This is an excellent vintage,'' he said, cradling a $200 red. This guy looked like a member of 'N Sync, and he clearly felt that someone like him should be dating Monica, not someone like me. I grabbed the wine list, tapping into that brain center with the matchbook notes. ''I've tried that and find it a little acrid,'' I said, with a wine experience ranging from Boone's Farm in college to Manischewitz at Passover. ''Instead, can you bring us the. . . .'' My eyes raced to find the first $40 bottle. I had gotten the best of the waiter (luckily, he didn't challenge me to a dance-off). But the wonders of being crocked in the company of a hot model extend only to a certain point. Monica and I reached that point back at her place. After glugging yet more wine we looked at her modeling portfolio. She showed me her head shots, and I fully intended to show her one of mine. But after the taste of toes, the next memory I have is (oh, the inhumanity!) the sound of a vibrator.

It's entirely possible that my lost details include making Monica soar more than sore--and that's exactly how it's gone during the hundreds of subsequent fantasy trips I've taken back to those pink bedsheets. If I can't seem to recall actual specifics, it's not for lack of trying. The point is, I got there and would have gone there again had not my relationship with Monica disintegrated as soon as I left town. And anyway, what's the fun of hearing about someone else's sweat-soaked memories? You probably want to go out and get some of your own.