The Ironwood Collection of Alpha Moves (16 page)

So I broke the TV.

Not really -- I merely removed the HDMI cable connecting it to the cable box.  But the TV in our bedroom was, for all practical purposes, off-line.  When she got home that evening and hit the remote control and saw the big blue screen, she freaked out.  She called me in, asked if I had paid the cable bill (yes), and then begged me to figure out what was wrong.

I appeared to give the television a close examination, scratched my beard thoughtfully (hey, that's what it's for), and made a couple of thinking noises.

"Yeah, it looks like the HDMI cable is missing.  The cable box can't send a signal to the TV set."  Since Mrs. I's technical expertise is more electron-microscope-related, she was utterly at my technical mercy.

"Well, how the hell did
that
happen?  Where is it?" she demanded, testily.

"Oh, I took it," I assured her.

She looked confused.  She always looks cute when she's confused.  It doesn't happen often.

"Why?  Was there something wrong with it?"

"Yes, actually," I assured her.  "It was sucking my wife's brain out of her head and depriving my penis of comfort and joy.  So I removed it temporarily to let the condition ease."

"That's not funny, Ian!" she yelled,
irritated
.  Okay, maybe not 'yelled', but her nostrils were flaring.  Also cute.

"It's not," I agreed.  "It's tragic.  I realized that I was paying the cable company to keep me from having sex, and it was starting to piss me off.  I thought I'd try this little experiment before I had it disconnected."

Now that was going to far, and I could see by the dangerous glint in her eyes that I was on thin ice with this little trick. Now, while this was technically before my Red Pill days, I was already starting to figure some things out.  Like if you take a stand with your wife, you'd better not back down before she understands your point.

"Damn it, Ian, fix it right now!"

"No.  I've hidden the cord.  It's part of my evil plan.  But I will give you a chance to get it back . . ."

She groaned.  "What, after we have sex?"  I could tell she wasn't in the mood for that, not right then.

"No," I said with great patience and as much
condescension
as I could muster, "you'll get the cable back when you
. . .
beat me at Scrabble
."  For dramatic effect, I threw the Scrabble game in the middle of the bed.  We'd gotten it at Christmas from one of our friends, but hadn't even taken it out of the box.

She eyed the box suspiciously.  "Scrabble?  Really?"

I shrugged.  "If you don't think you can hang I can give you a two-letter handicap," I offered, graciously.

She snorted derisively.  "In your dreams, Liberal Arts boy.  But fuck that: fix my TV!"  Despite her desperation, I could tell she was already wavering.

"No.  Besides, it's
my
TV, remember?"  Of course she remembers -- I bought it without consulting her with some freelance money she didn't know about and it sparked a three-day fight.  "Tell you what, if you want some time to think it over, I'll--"

"Just get the board out," she growled.  "I'm so going to kick your ass and then you're never going to pull this kind of shit again."

"You can dream," I said, graciously, as I pulled out the pristine little bag full of letters and offered her first selection.

She began the game in a surly mood, but after I put on some music, made sure the kids were asleep, and fetched us both some cocktails, we had an enormously good time.  I won, keeping the cord for another night, but Mrs. Ironwood freely admitted that she had a really, really good time losing at Scrabble.

(Before you conclude that she threw the game to protect my delicate male ego, be assured that Scrabble is one area where both of our egos are sufficiently engaged so that we play with the fervor of gladiators at bloodsport.  I'm a professional writer and a word nerd, she's written books on medical terminology and was president of Latin Honor Society in high school.  When we play Scrabble, it's to the death.)

What started as a temporary snit soon evolved into a semi-regular routine-breaking game that provided both of us with a mental and emotional respite from the rest of our lives.  We could be competitive at Scrabble without fear of alienating each other.  We could talk about our day, work out some relationship issues, gossip about our friends, have a couple of cocktails, and indulge our brains in a complex, detail-oriented task that didn't have a
damned
thing to do with our real lives.  It was breathtakingly refreshing.

Husbands and wives just don't play together as much as they should.  In working separate jobs, playing tag-team to get the kids where they need to go, dealing with the inevitable drama of work, friends and family, plus the constant pressure of dealing with each other so intimately that it starts hurting your relationship with over-familiarity and under-appreciation, we lose the simple and precious experience of interacting about something trivial and enjoyable.  If all of your conversations with your spouse revolve around problems, your mind is going to naturally going to start associating your spouse with problems, not enjoyable interactions.

It's not about who wins -- the last thing you should do is get hyper-competitive and domineering about it.  Choose a game you both like, that doesn't favor either of you overmuch, and that you don't mind losing.  In fact, it's good for a man to loose a game every now and again.  Demonstrating to your wife that you're gracious in defeat is a serious DHV.  There are plenty of classic games like Yahtzee! and Monopoly and plain ol' Gin Rummy you can do with her and have an enormously good time.

Hell, even a game of chess can hold promise.

I got three hours of sleep
between landing at the airport from a long weekend in Las Vegas and getting up to get the kids off to school.
 
And yes, I may very well be suffering through the tail end of a hangover.
 
It's certainly within the realm of possibility.
A long weekend in Las Vegas has the potential to be life-changing if you do it right, and while that sort of thing didn't happen this weekend, I did make several very intriguing field observations about Game in the wild, untamed, anything-goes erotic landscape of Las Vegas.

I like
Las Vegas
, if you can't tell.
 
It's like Disney for adults.
 
While they used to call it
Sin
City
, I prefer the more accurate term the "City of
Id
".
 
If you've got a sexual itch to scratch,
Las Vegas
is like a
 
premier
 
buffet.
 
 
But before I expound about my Single Game in Vegas observations, I want to cover the Married Game advantages to a weekend away in this most decadent of environments.
 
Some couples fear the idea of Vegas, too insecure in their relationship to be tempted by the fleshpots of
Nevada
.
 
Me, I just needed a vacation, and Mrs. Ironwood had a conference there, so we killed two birds and while she was being all noble and saving the world I was getting wasted around the clock and spending my kids' inheritance on penny slots and fruity rum drinks.
This was my third trip to the burgh, and after Mrs. I's conference was over and I was able to sober up enough to go and be social with her, we decided to blow off the closing
 
session for something a little more . . .
 
intimate.
 
"Intimate" in this case meant dirty dancing with my wife in front of a crowd of drunken strangers.
Look, everyone wants a hot sex weekend in Vegas, and as you get older your expectations for such events go up even as they become more infrequent.
 
And there was
 
plenty
 
of sex -- but that wasn't the draw for either of us.
 
We already
 
have
 
plenty of sex, thanks to the Red Pill.
 
But what is often missing from the lives of middle-aged married couples is that sense of excitement and intensity that may have faded over the years as you get used to each others' personal sexual
 
idiosyncrasies.
 
The stuff that turns into hypergamy and/or infidelity if you aren't careful.
 
There is real danger in relationship
 
ennui
.  Y
ou just can't count on a regular Date Night to keep things spicy and interesting.
But a drunken weekend in Vegas ...
We hit the buffet at Harrah's and pigged out, which did both of our stomachs good.
 
We were actually planning on heading over to the
Erotic
Museum
, which I've planned on attending each of the three times I've been in Vegas and never quite making, and this time was no different.
 
We were even headed to the taxi stand to splurge on a cab there when we walked passed the open-air Carnaval bar at Harrah's and decided to stop inside for a smoke and get our bearings. We ended up staying there for over six hours.
The reason was the band.
 
Now, you can find every kind of entertainment known to man in
Las Vegas
, from transvestite lounge acts to comedy to acrobatics to a donkey show, if you know where to look.
 
The entertainment options are truly limitless.
 
But the mid-Sunday-afternoon band at the bar, an 80s tribute band called the
 
Nancy Rayguns
 
was free, enthusiastic, and actually quite good.
 
Throw in some drink specials, a flair bartender named Flippy, and a crowd of middle-aged Gen Xers who actually
 
remember
 
the songs that the band played, and you have one hell of a pink-and-teal acid-washed
 
party.
 
But I had the nascent beginnings of a plan.
 
The point of this exercise wasn't merely to be entertained:
 
it was to pay some
 
very
 
public attention to my wife in a way she would be reluctant to see if we weren't in the land of the 24 hour hooker, surrounded by a
sea
of
Asian
tourists and drunken old farts.
 
The point was to show her that
 
I'm still hungry.
 
 

Like the wolf.
I think that's a trap too many Blue Pill dudes fall into: once they are safely in a
relationship,
they
forget the need to
 
publicly
 
express their desire for their woman.
 
 
Mrs. Ironwood and I went into that bar as a middle-aged husband and wife, and while that didn't change ostensibly, in actuality it was far more like a boyfriend taking out his girlfriend to a show than a husband and wife enjoying a quiet afternoon of entertainment.
Simply put, the moment I heard the first rockabilly strains of
 
"Goody Two-Shoes"
, it was like it was 1987 all over again.
 
Sure, there was an element of nostalgia for my lost youth -- but it was far more a reminder of how far I've come in my life.
 
In 1987 I was overweight, underconfident, and mired in Blue Pill ideology that saw me get my heart handed to me by a series of women.
 
Hearing that band brought me back to my youth, sure.
 
Only this time I knew what the hell I was doing when it came to girls.
 
And I had conveniently packed my own.
So it was
 
SHOWTIME
 
for Ian.
Back when all of these songs came out, I had been stunted by insecurity and brow-beaten by the Blue Pill: it made me either a sullen wallflower or an over-the-top spaz when it came to girls.
 
It was the Age of AIDS and date rape seminars, the height of the cultural purge of masculinity the feminists waged throughout the Age of Teal.
 
I had been awkward, ugly, low-value, and sullenly embittered by the unfairness of it all and the hopelessness going forward.
 
You know, Teen Stuff.
Now . . . . not so much.
 
It took that nostalgic, painful flash of teenage angst associated with that music to make me appreciate
 
just how far I have come.
 
 
The dude I was would
 
never
have dared to nuzzle a chick's neck in a public place without three pieces of signed and notarized documentation stating in advance that said neck-nuzzling was an acceptable and mutually consensual act agreed upon before hand that in no way obligated either party to any further activity not covered herein.
 
But now, I brazenly nibbled and more or less felt her up in an affectionate-and-socially-acceptable way in front of a crowd of drunken strangers.
 
I knew now what all of her Indicators of Interest were, and how I could arouse them through a combination of brazen cockiness and bold Alpha displays, especially in the social context of fellow adults engaged in similar pursuits.
 
I knew that the ragged strains of Joan Jett and the smooth crooning of Boy George, not to mention the naked , raw sexuality of Oates (sorry, Hall not so much) triggered a similar sexual nostalgia for her, taking her back to when sex revolved around cute boys and marrying someone rich and famous, not the titanic interpersonal struggle it evolved into as we matured.
 
I knew, without a shred of doubt or a hint of insecurity that I looked good, I was out with my chick, I could exhibit my social prowess through a series of increasingly-humorous and sexy displays, and, with a degree of certainty usually reserved for a cash transaction, that Ian would be getting lucky in Vegas that night.
The band played
 
"Lets Get Physical"
 
and I cavorted around Mrs. Ironwood's chair like a drunken teen, up to and including borderline obscene pelvic thrusts.
 
Then we had another drink and the time of our lives.
 
A drink later, I hit the jackpot.
 
They played
 
Duran Duran's
Hungry Like A Wolf.
Now, while I really didn't
 
know
 
Mrs. Ironwood back in the 1980s, I've picked up enough about her personal history to know which songs and performers elicit specific memories.
 
And I know for a fact that there has always been a certain damp spot in her panties for
 
Duran Duran
.
 
Something to do with a middle school crush, perhaps, I'm not sure of the details but based on memorabilia and previous response,
 
Duran Duran
 
--
 
Simon Le Bon, Nick Rhodes, John Taylor, Andy Taylor and Roger Taylor --
 
just
 
does
 
something to Mrs. I.
 
Live
 
Duran Duran
, after three rounds of fruity rum drinks and a free pour-in-your-mouth shot courtesy of Flippy the flair bartender, and I could only
 
imagine
 
what was going on in her libido.
 
And I knew
 
just
 
how to turn it up.
All the way to 11.
(It's like everyone else just goes to
 
10
, but ...)
When
 
Hungry Like The Wolf
 
came on, I got up in front of everyone and started dancing with the two drunk chicks who were celebrating their 40th birthday and reliving their own nostalgic moments on the dance floor. Mrs. Ironwood giggled girlishly as I paid them some nasty (but tasteful) attention, and got some solid preselection points in return.
 
Then I went back to the table, grabbed her by the hand, and led her out on the dance floor.
Now, Mrs. I, as a rule, doesn't dance.
 
She's still recovering from breaking her heel and other foot injuries, so the entire trip revolved on her walking as little as possible.
 
But three drinks drunk, with her
 
husband
 
boyfriend insisting that he wanted her -- her and
 
only
 
her -- so much, so
 
publicly, that he was willing to risk looking
 
utterly ridiculous
 
in an effort to impress her with his manly strutting.
 
But I owed it to her.
 
No one
 
puts Baby in a corner.
 
So strut I did.
 
I pulled every 80s dance move but the Robot (even I have some pride) my tired old body could manage.
 
I put on my my my my my boogie shoes.
 
There was
 
moonwalking
involved.
 
There was more funky pelvic thrusting . . . and drop-to-your-knees grinding in a
most
 
indecent fashion, my face making scenic detours through her cleavage on both legs of the round trip.
 
There was gyrating and spins.
 
There was
 
Footloose
-style white people dancing.
 
I even attempted a half-split that didn't end too badly.
 
 
I dragged Mrs. I out of her safe chair near the stage and into and out of my contortions on the dance floor, never loosing eye-contact, never letting my full intention waver from her and
her alone
.
 
There was macho struttery and arrogant posturing.
 
There was lurid movements and gratuitous crotch-grabbing.
 
I was on like
 
Donkey Kong
,
 
putting it out there, working hard for the money.
 
And Mrs. Ironwood ate it up like Pop-Rocks.
 
That's when I went to 11.
 
I
 
popped my collar.
 
Like
 
The
 
Outsiders
.
 
For real. And
 
I meant it.
You could almost hear the gush, and not just from her.
 
The horny birthday girls (with mommy bobs -- sorry ladies, thank you for playing) were visibly envious.
 
The crowd, already watching my antics, went wild.
 
The band called it to everyone's attention.
 
Flippy flipped out.
 
I'm not great-looking, but
 
comparatively
 
speaking I was on the high side of the Sex Rank at that club, and I knew it.
 
I was one of only a handful of guys dancing, and by far the most flamboyant and arguably the most enthusiastic.
 
I worked it.
 
Dance-wise, I was
 
AMOG.
 
Me.
Nerd Boy.
 
Damn.
In 1987 I
 
never
 
would have considered being that, in any venue.
 
In 1987 every glance at a woman was plagued with Betacized doubt and cowering fear.
 
Dance in public?
 
With
women?
 
 
With a
 
girlfriend?
 
 
Not me, man.
 
I'm not
 
that
 
dude.
 
I'm the nerd, over in the corner.
Now I'm the nerd at the center of attention.
 
I'm the nerd
 
boldly going
 
where I never would have dreamt I'd go.
 
I was a nerd with Game, and
 
that made me mighty.
It also made Mrs. I terribly,
 
terribly
 
enchanted with my display.
 
For one brief shining moment, the kids, the house, the jobs, the career track, the money issues and all the responsibilities were gone, and it was just me showing my chick how badly I wanted her
 
in front of the whole world
, without pause or reservation (or, apparently,
 
any
 
sense of propriety).