Great.
Her hands flushed hot and cold as she reached into her purse, resting on the settee as she texted her best friend, Kari.
RESCUE TEXT NEEDED! she typed.
Ten seconds later, her best friend replied.
Damn! Sorry. Will text. That bad?
Hard to explain, but it’s bad.
Need me to come in person and pretend to be your lover?
Kari had done that once. It blew up in their faces when the date asked for a threesome.
Never mind, Kari wrote, as if reading her mind. Didn’t go so well last time.
I draw the line at tongue kissing you, Suzanne tapped, laughing to herself. Bad enough we shared a sleeping bag that one time when we camped in Montana.
I’m only a lesbian when it’s negative two degrees outside, Kari joked. What’s he doing?
Negging me! Only it’s like he’s following a script, she replied.
Her phone rang.
“Suz, is he following a script? Remember that dating service I mystery shopped, where we were trained on anti-PUA techniques?”
Kari pronounced the word like POO-uh.
“Poo-uh?”
“Pick-up artist.”
“Oh, God. Is that what he’s doing? Why? Why do guys do this shit?”
“Did he start out with something like, ‘I just have to tell you—’ and then flatter you?”
Suzanne’s stomach went cold. “Yes.”
“And did he show you pictures of himself surrounded by hot women and elite men?”
“Oh my God, Kari, yes!” Her voice went high and screechy. “How did you know?”
“And now he’s negging you.”
“Yes!”
“He’s following the Eight Tips.”
“What are ‘the Eight Tips’?”
“These PUA trainers have workshops and books where they train guys on how to get women to sleep with them. There’s a famous list of eight tips for bagging a woman.”
“Bagging? I’m about as likely to sleep with Steve Raleigh as I am to shove a breadstick up my ass.”
“Thanks for the visual. You know I’m eating dinner right now.” Kari paused. “Steve Raleigh, huh? I’ll Google him for you when we’re off the phone.”
“Sorry. What do I do?” she asked. Kari was more worldly when it came to dating. “I just want to tell him off and disappear.”
“You could,” Kari mused. “But what about having some fun with him?”
“Fun? You call this fun?”
“What if you turn it around on him? Make him suffer a little.”
“Now you’re talking my language. How?”
“If he’s really following a script, then his next step is kee-no.”
“KEE-no? Like the game?”
“No. K-I-N-O. It’s this stupid phrase that’s short for kinesthetics. He’s going to start covertly touching you in non-sexual places as a test to see where your physical boundaries are.”
“You mean he’ll groom me.”
“Basically.”
“This is so gross.”
“Welcome to the world of the pick-up artist. You’re an object. An animal who can be trained.”
“So turn the training right back around on him?”
“Exactly. He won’t know what hit him.”
“So what do I do?”
“KINO is all about quietly touching you. They start with the shoulder. The knee. The arm. Then they move on to brush the side-boob, the hip, and so forth. They’re testing your bounds.”
“So I give it back?”
“But on your terms, Suz.” Kari started giggling.
Aha. Suzanne was starting to understand.
“What else? What’s next?”
“Sexual dialing.”
“Like a booty call?”
“No, no. He’ll just dial it up. Start touching you on the belly, the breast, and so forth. Making it clear he wants sex.”
“Eww.”
“You know how cross-examination works in a courtroom, right?”
“What does that have to do with my awkward date?”
“Think about it, Suz. Use his techniques against him.”
Epiphany. Lightbulb.
“Got it.”
“Next, he’ll argue with you about some stupid thing.”
“He’s already done that. Who cares if I drink white wine with beef? He got really weird about that one.”
“It’s called ‘qualification.’ They do it to be all alpha and prove they’re not boring. He’ll do it again.”
“Too late.”
“And the final move is to get you into bed or get your number, but he’ll do it in a way that makes you think he’s rejecting you.”
“He already has my number.”
“Then he’s going for the pink hole.”
“Kari!”
“Well...he is.”
“KINO, dialing, qualification, pick-up.” Suzanne memorized it like she was studying for the bar.
“You’ll do fine. I kind of pity the guy.”
“I hate this.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Suzanne just sighed.
Kari began to giggle. “Suz? How much makeup do you have in your purse?”
“Makeup? I’m not wasting one more second on looking nice for that loser!”
“No, no. I have an idea. Shake out all your makeup.”
Thirty seconds later, Suzanne stared at two lipsticks, a mascara tube, some rouge, and a metallic-blue eyeliner left over from the last time she saw her teen niece.
She recited the items to Kari.
“Unbutton the top two buttons of your blouse.”