Free Ringer by Brian M Wiprud

yourself, with a bottle and no guests, the ladies will come sit near you hoping you’ll offer them a drink while you wait for your friends. Catch flies with honey.”
    “Ah, this is clever, Roger. We do not have bottle service in La Paz.”
    “When in Rome. So order whatever it is you’re drinking, by the glass if you want. But do the bottle service and they’ll come to you. Do not pay cash, just give the waitress your credit card.” Roger looked at his watch. “It shouldn’t be too busy there now, it’s early, you’ll get the after-work crowd. Girls headed out to celebrate a birthday, like that. Birds of a feather.”
    So I did exactly as Roger had instructed. I went to the West Side swanky bar on the note, I sat at a plush couch with a coffee table and flanking chairs, and I ordered a bottle of Grey Goose, and a glass of burgundy for myself. Just as Roger had said, two girls named Stephanie and Elissa sat across from me, and I offered them a drink. More girls arrived, friends of theirs, Cami, Meg, Grace, Mim, and Vim. Dena was late. I ordered another bottle, setting my sights on Vim. She was closer to my age than the others, slightly larger, so I calculated that she would be more susceptible to my charms. I’m not saying that she was a dog or fat or anything. She was just more full-figured than the others, and I know men these days lean toward skinny and insubstantial women. Vim had long blond crinkly hair, a short print dress, and platform shoes.
    We struck up a conversation. Vim was a legal secretary, and I found that fascinating. I guessed her astrological sign, was wrong, but that never matters. If you show an interest in astrology, women think you are spiritual somehow, and I have found being spiritual is always a turn-on for the fair sex. Religious not so much.
    I lured her away from the others by sharing an interest in wine. We went to the bar, had a glass of something expensive, and I regaled her with stories of La Paz and the life of gentry. While I spoke, she crossed her legs and her eyes were bright. She ran her fingers through her hair three times. Then she touched my arm and said she had to go.
    I hope the men in the audience will pay attention to the little details, as they are crucial. Details of what scientists call “body language.” If you are speaking with a woman in a dress and she crosses her legs, the body language tells you she is testing to see if you are attracted to her legs. You must sneak a look and let her catch you. Conversely—and this I find both fascinating and infuriating—do not let a woman catch you staring at her breasts, no matter how magnificent those parts may be. I cannot say why this is so, but it is OK to look at a woman’s legs but not her tits. You will just have to trust me on this.
    Unless she speaks of her breasts, of course. You think I am making a joke, but I am not. A woman with implants will often come right out and ask you what you think of her enhancements. Then you must tell her what marvelous cleavage she has purchased. Though a friend of mine once doubted they were better than real breasts, and played that line of conversation out to the extent that the woman showed him the breasts and let him handle them for quality. Do not try this at home, kids.
    I think even the dullards in the audience will know that a woman who strokes her hair as she is talking with you wants a compliment to test your level of interest. You may compliment her hair, or better still her jewelry, because that opens a whole other line of ridiculous conversation about where she got it and what it is made of. You might even say something about how turquoise goes well with her skin, or that you prefer sterling silver to gold. It suggests that you know jewelry and more importantly might therefore be disposed to purchasing it, possibly for her sometime in the future.
    If you compliment her shoes she will like it but think you are gay.
    When a woman touches your arm as you are charming