Clarity, confidence, the nice guy and when someone finally listens and learns.
It started with a T-shirt. It read, If you think the world is full of assholes, maybe you’re the asshole. He knew he wasn’t an asshole, so he called the guy in the shirt one as he passed the other way.
Then there were the billboards and adverts. It was for a men’s charm school, he figured. He didn’t need that noise. He did charming things every day and still got turned down, rejected, and otherwise refused by the bitches that were everywhere.
Even the fat cows turned him down. Even the ugly ones made other plans.
What the hell was wrong with the women of the world.
Then, late one night, the TV spoke to him while he was mindlessly eating chips off his chest and flipping channels.
“Hey,” said the handsome guy on TV. “Are you tired of sleeping alone? Spending late nights eating snacks off your chest while flipping through the stations looking for anything good? Need a lady in your life?”
“…yeah…” he whispered. To all three.
“You need Progress For Men,” said the guy on TV. He named the exact same charm school he’d been avoiding. “Just take a look at what it did for me.”
It showed some really amateur footage of a younger, handsome guy getting turned down, getting drinks thrown in his face, and getting laughed at. “I thought I was a nice guy. I thought I was making all the right moves. The ladies that told me otherwise? They were all bitches. They wouldn’t even play The Game.”
“Yeah, that book is a piece of shit,” he agreed.
“Then I tried the Progress For Men free evaluation trial month program. It opened my eyes. When I signed up for the intensive program, I was already on my way to becoming a better man. You can try it, too.”
What the hell. His life wasn’t going anywhere. Hell, maybe there was a resort and a gym.
He signed up for the evaluation and trial and made an appointment to get himself evaluated.
The clean, clinical office had a fattie black chick behind the counter. They’d done everything to dress her up, but a sow in a skirt was still a pig. Then a bombshell in the same uniform turned up and it was all he could do not to get a boner.
He eagerly followed her into the evaluation chamber. A small, white room with a desk and two chairs. He didn’t remember the questions and, frankly, spent most of the interview trying to hit on the frigid bitch.
He had to come back the next day for another interview, but he didn’t mind. As long as there was eye-candy like that, he didn’t care.
Then they had a guy interviewing him. Sort of average guy. Nobody he felt threatened by. And they had weird-ass questions.
“How many times a day would you use ‘bitch’ to describe a woman?” or, “What’s the first thing you look for in a lady?” and, “What do you expect out of this program?”
“I expect to get laid every time I try to pick up a girl,” he said. “And if I don’t get laid by the end of the trial month, you don’t get a red cent.”
The guy interviewing him raised his eyebrows and ticked a checkbox on his clipboard.
“What’s your type?”
“Any girl who’s not a bitch. Or a slut.”
It went on for hours. He hadn’t noticed with eye-candy, but with Geoff… it took forever. He went home confused and bored and angry.
And got woken up at the buttcrack of dawn by someone in the sports version of the Progress For Men uniform. This one had a stylised wing emblem on the left side of the chest.
“What the fuck…?”
“Hi, I’m Craig. I’ll be your Wing Man for the trial month. Get your shorts on. We’re going jogging.”
He slammed the door in Craig’s face. Craig got in a mariachi band to play Lady of Spain until he came out in exercise gear.
“Your type of dream girl,” explained Craig as he bounced along. “Is the type of lady who looks after herself. She’s going to expect someone who looks after himself, or is at least making an effort to do so. Ladies have standards, too.”
“…godthishurts…” he panted.
But Craig was right. There were lots of shapely ladies in the park. Some doing Tai Chi, some jogging, some biking… It was an undiscovered smorgasbord.
He ran into a light pole while checking out the hot bodies doing yoga stretches. When he came to, there was a pretty little thing pressing an ice pack to one side of his face.
This was the most contact he’d had with any chick since he’d left home.
“My fault…” he managed to keep Craig’s ground rules. Blame yourself and play it cool. “First day in the park. Too many… way distracting sights. Yaknow?”
“Oh, I saw you looking.”
“I’m a guy, I can’t help it.” Craig cleared his throat in the background. Oh yeah. Blame himself. Undersell. “Everywhere that wants to sell anything does it with bosoms and buttocks… Gets to be you look for them anywhere you can see them.”
She helped him up. “If that’s the case, maybe I could run beside you? Make sure you don’t run into any more poles?”
“I’d love a bodyguard,” he said.
Craig ran behind, coughing or clearing his throat when he almost blundered. And things went well. All the way to grabbing a coffee and a bagel and introductions.
Her name was Cindy. She was a therapist at Mind and Body. She liked old time rock and roll and had a body that looked like it wouldn’t quit.
“Now,” said Craig, sitting him down at a roadside cafe table. “Describe Cindy.”
He did. Hair colour, height, tits, ass, legs.
“Would you recognize her in a suit?”
“Uh…”
A girl sat down with them. Professional gear. Little tablet. “Hello, guys.”
He didn’t know her, but she acted as if she knew them.
“You remember Cindy,” said Craig the wing man.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I have to confess… I was not looking at your face.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. Is your friend helping you out?”
Rule five. Tell the truth. “Yeah. He’s my wing man.”
Things actually went well with Cindy. She told him, honestly, that within the first five minutes of meeting a chick, a guy should look directly into her eyes for at least eight seconds. Should watch her mouth when she talks, and never, ever talk to her chest. No matter how 'out there’ that chest was.
He found her jogging the next day and ran with her. Talked with her. He had to admit he found it hard to stay focussed on her face with that skimpy outfit she had on.
“You try finding modest exercise gear for ladies,” she said.
He took it as a challenge. A challenge he failed. There was nothing on the racks, anywhere, that didn’t scream 'slut’ to the universe at large. And really weird, they never had anything for the fatties that really needed to exercise.
He put politer words around it to Cindy, of course.
“That’s society for you,” she said. And she explained privilege and how it worked against anyone who didn’t fit a very narrow mould. How the world was set up against anyone who was not white, skinny, or well off.
It opened his eyes.
He wound up sleeping with Cindy before his deadline, but now he wanted to pay for the rest of the course.
Girls like her didn’t need assholes like him.
Maybe, when he came out of the other side, he would be someone she deserved. Or someone that a lady like her deserved.
It wasn’t enough to be a nice guy. He had to become a good guy.
[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]