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Excerpt from "Spread 'Em" Chapter (Click Here for Printer Version) I have had phone dates. Huh? Phone dates. That’s what I call it when I ask out a woman who I have only met over the phone. Who would I meet over the phone? I went out with a couple newspaper reporters who interviewed me over the phone. We flirted during the interview, conducted for their local paper about my upcoming comedy appearance in town, and I asked them out. I went out a few times with sales reps who handled my glow’n-the-dark condoms account. One night I called a girl to play in a beach volleyball tournament. A friend of hers—who I had met on the beach and asked to play—referred me to her. I called her up and we got to talking about more than the tournament. Her name was Julie and she was upset because some guy hadn’t called her. They had been on a few dates and he said he would call, but he hadn’t. We flirted big time for thirty minutes. She told me she was wearing only a little red nightie. Abruptly, she invited me over. “I don’t want to be alone; I’ll just get more and more pissed about this guy not calling. You should come over.” There was no way I was going over to her place. She lived out in the burbs. I wasn’t going to drive all the way out there only to learn when I arrived that she had changed her mind, and then drive back home. I told her that. “Then I’m coming to your place. What are the directions?” I told her and added a stipulation, “If you come over, you have to wear the red nightie. We’ll have a pajama party.” She agreed. I didn’t think she’d show and got on the phone with my friend John. An hour later, much to my surprise, my doorbell rang. I blurted into the phone, “Gotta go, John; this girl just got here for a pajama party.” “What? What girl? Who?” “I don’t know, I just talked to her tonight for the first time.” I hung up, buzzed her in, searched frantically for a pair of pajamas (I don’t wear pajamas), and threw them on, finishing just as she reached my door. I hope she’s pretty, I thought. She was. She was actually a pretty farm girl from Indiana. She had big brown eyes, some freckles, and this soft, sweet smile with deep dimples. “Come on in.” She stayed in the doorway, “I just want to tell you that I told my sister and a friend I was coming here. They know the address and everything.” “Damn it, now I have to kill them, too; that’s kind of a hassle.” She laughed and came inside, “You’re not really going to make me put on my nightie, are you?” “Of course I am; I’m wearing pajamas, aren’t I?” “I’m not going to put it on.” Actions speak louder than words. She drove to my place. She knew about the pajama stipulation. Most importantly, she brought the nightie with her. If she really didn’t want to wear it, she would have left it at home. She didn’t want to be held accountable. If I acted like a jerk, it would relieve her of accountability in her mind. See how it all comes together? “Okay, well, seems like a long way to drive for nothing. Have a good trip back home.” “Ah! You’re not serious. You’d make me drive all the way back home?” “Yup.” “I guess I better put it on, then.” See? In her mind, she was putting on the nightie because I was making her, not because she wanted to. She wasn’t being honest with herself about what she wanted. She wasn’t being accountable. In college, I would have screwed the whole thing up. I wouldn’t have made her put on the nightie, I would have changed out of my PJ’s back into my clothes, and we would’ve talked until she became bored with my lack of action and left. But this wasn’t college . . . school was out. She changed in the bathroom. She came out wearing this little red nightie. We danced to a song and then off came the nightie.
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