Ssssst. You. Yes, you. Over here. Come on, Jack, you can admit it. Just between the two of us. Those advertisements piqued your glammis, didn’t they? Uh-uh, don’t try to lame me with that coy, vacant look. We understand each other. I mean the ads that say: do you make THESE DUMB MISTAKES WITH GIRLS? They’re all over full-page in, say, Penthouse—where any full page has gotta cost more than a semester at Groton. You know it: the ad with Polaroid-plain photography of some wench who looks sensual as a stunned turbot. Her last name is vintage Havelock-Ellis: like Lyn A. or Beth C. I quote Patty T.: “If a man expects to get anywhere with girls now-a-days he better learn how ‘not’ to act with us.” Remember Patty T.? You probably dated her: once.
The ad text is shameless: so, I fear, is the solitude and frustration in which many men live. Charles Silverman (of Silverman, ha, Research) has learned to leech off emptiness as anaerobic bacteria do. Old Charlie has no conscience: he’d promise love and sexual gratification to Zinjanthropus at $10 the dose. Listen: “You will learn why many girls refuse to date you (it has nothing to do with looks . . . with personality or age . . . with money).” That means you, Sigmoid: no matter if you speak with a glottal honk; no matter if your face looks like it was pressed in Volume PQ of the Encyclopaedia Britannica since 1947. No matter: “Once you find out what you are doing wrong, it will automatically become ‘super easy’ for you to get many of these beautiful girls to sleep with you (think about that).” Sleep from boredom maybe: while standing beside you on the 79th Street bus.
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