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“Secret Sex, A Book Alive Online,” written and lived by John Scott G.

Chapter 25 – “Dating Tips”

She was beautiful. She was lovely. She was alluring. She was desirable. The lady was more intoxicating than absinthe. A gorgeous and stunning woman, she was at the same time a vision of incomparable girlish deliciousness. More importantly, she was living testimony to the existence of a higher power.

Credit - Author Photo: Phil HattenNot that I said any of those things to my family, but I think they could tell.

“Sounds like you’ve got it bad,” my uncle said to me.

“Yeah,” I admitted to him. “What can I do?”

“Come with me into my office,” by which he meant his bedroom, “and I will discuss with you the wonderful problems of dealing with feminine pulchritude.”


“Pulchritude. It means physical comeliness.”

“Oh,” I said. “Umm. . . ”

“It means she’s a real honey.”

“Yeah, definitely,” I said. “So, what do I do?”

“Gotta ask some questions here. First, and I don’t want you to take any offence at this, but does she even know who you are?”

“Of course she knows who I am! We’re going out Friday night.”

“Okay, good. That’s good. Just had to make sure this wasn’t one of those things where the guy is thinking about the babe and the babe is thinking about the school’s quarterback.”

“No, she said she’d like to go out with me.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s good. When you guys were talking, did she say your name?”


“You know, like this: You ask if she’d go out and she says ‘Okay,’ which means one thing, or she says ‘I’d like that, John,’ which means something else. Did she say your name?”

“She said my name.”

“That’s a good sign. All right, all right, you’re moving on this, kiddo.”

“Yeah, but, well. . . .” I didn’t know what to tell him. He wasn’t aware of my, um, interludes with the school nurse. He hadn’t heard anything about my playing The Game. He just knew I was going out on a date and was worried about it.

“Hey, don’t look so down in the mouth,” he said. “It’ll be nifty. It’s all good. It’ll work out fine. Just fine.”

“Thanks, I — ”

“Or it won’t.”

“Wait, what?”

“Either way, nobody will even remember it a couple years from now.”

“I don’t care about a couple of years from now; I just want to survive Friday.”

“Oh, you’ll survive. Oh sure. Most likely. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, I guess.” I got up to leave.

“You want pointers?”

“You have some?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, mom says you had a reputation.”

“With the ladies, yup. I was a killer. Sit down.”

“Okay,” I said, “but are we, you know, going to get to something that’s going to help me?”

“Always had dates,” he said, ignoring my question. “Had a few minor setbacks along the way, but mostly I hit the trail running, if you know what I mean.”

“Ummm, maybe I do.”

“Oh, you’ll know if you hit the trail running. If you grab that train and fill the tunnel, you’ll know, kiddo, you’ll know. So, let me give you the benefit of my expertise. Now, first, it’s all a numbers game. You try every time, but sometimes you just strike out. Sometimes there are mistakes.”


“Been married five times. Never learned from my mistakes. Don’t you screw up like that. You remember this, young man: Marriage Means Pain.”

“Mom and dad are happy, aren’t they?”

“Right, right. Sure they are. Sure they are. Happy as . . . well, happy people. They got lucky. Most people don’t.”

“Uncle Man,” (that’s what we called him), “I’m not getting married. It’s just a date.”

“For you, it’s a date. For her, it’s an audition. She’s trying you on for size.”

I just stared at him. Clearly, this was a bit beyond me.

“A gal takes stock of the situation,” he said. “Meaning you.” He paused and I think he was taking stock of our situation. He saw that I was kinda-sorta following him, but just barely. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “She looks at every guy, or every date, and pictures herself with you in a house with a white picket fence, some kids, a dog, a cat, and a parakeet. Get it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“A guy doesn’t do that. You’re thinking about getting her into the bedroom and she’s wondering if you’re going to earn enough money to pay for all the bedrooms she wants. You know, the house, the kids, the dog, the cat, and the bird.”

Once again, I just stared at him.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said. “Forget about all that. You want the date to be a hoot. Gotcha. Listen. Really listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“Not to me, to her! On the date.”

“Just like when you’re trying to pick them up?”

“Atta boy. That never changes. They want to think you care what they think. Even if you really don’t.”

“But I do care what she thinks.”

“Naaaw. No guy cares. You care what she thinks about you. Big difference. You see?”

“Sure, but it’s not like that.”

“Oh no? Look: do you care what she thinks about music, about sports, about school, about the weather?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Whoa. You do have it bad.”

He just stared at me. Clearly, this was a bit beyond him.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said. “Let’s re-group here. So you, and you alone, are the one guy in all of the Western, Eastern, Northern, and Southern Hemispheres who actually is interested in what his date has to say about whatever it is you’re talking about. Okay, okay.” He paused to think about it. “Okay. We can make this work for you. You’re going to have to act in reverse.”


“You betcha. Normally, you have to fake it that you’re interested in what she’s saying. You, however, are not going to have to worry about that. You, my addle-pated young friend, you are going to have to fake that you’re cool.”


“Look, here’s the deal. Remember when you’re at a party and a bunch of boys and girls are standing around talking?”


“And some guy comes into the party and one of the girls looks over and says something like ‘Uh-oh, that’s him.’ And all the girls look over and they start acting all funny. And one of the guys asks what’s going on and it always turns out that there’s this story about that guy. There’s this story that the guy beat up someone or he got some girl knocked up or he got thrown out of school or he stole a car or he got arrested or something like that.”

“Yeah,” I said, wondering if my uncle had been spying on some of the parties I had attended.

“And what happens at that point? All the girls fiddle with their hair, smooth their skirts, and adjust their boobs.”

“Ummm. . . ”

“Okay, they adjust their bras. But they’re just making sure the boobs are pointing in the right direction. You’ve seen it. It’s one of the times you can look over at ’em without any problem because they’re busy looking down at ’em. Right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” This was spooky. It was good to have an uncle who understood the younger generation.

“And why are they doing this primping and preening and pointing?”

“Well,” I started to reply, and realized I didn’t know. “Uh, no, why?”

“Because all the gals are hoping the bad boy hits on them. They want the attention. Not the attention of you. Not the attention of the other guys who are being nice and standing around talking nicely with them. The bad boy. They want the bad boy.”

“Yeah. Yeah!” I said. “Wow, I noticed that, but it’s like I never noticed that, you know?”

“I know. That’s why I’m here for you, son.”

“Yeah, this is good stuff. What else you got?”

“Awww, I got nothin’. What do I know? I’m an old guy.”

There was an awkward pause. I stood up again.

“Yup,” he said, “except for the big secret of dealing with women, I got nothing. See ya ’round, kiddo.”

“Wait, what? What big secret?”

“Naah, you got better things to do.”

“No I don’t!”




“Did it in Study Hall.”

“You joshing me, boy?”

“No, Uncle Man. It was easy. All we had to do was read three chapters. A snap.”

“Okay. Sit down, my boy, we have something to share.”

I sat down again. I was all ears. He just stared at me, sizing me up.

“Just wondering if you’re really ready.”

“Come on, Uncle Man, what’s the secret?”

“Okay.” He sighed. Then he said: “It’s the kiss.”


“The kiss, the kiss. You gotta kiss her good,” he said again. “Everything starts with a kiss. You kiss a woman good, and she responds. Women love the kiss.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s true,” I said, smiling to myself as I remembered the kissing I’d done in the past. At least I thought I was smiling to myself.

“Oh ho, I see you’ve had some practice,” he said. “Good for you. Whatever the gals have shown you, try that on her and then just let her show you what she likes. They’ve had lots of practice with each other so they know what they want.”


“Girls get together and talk about boys. And clothes and make-up and shoes and hair. But it’s all to make themselves attractive to. . . ”


“You got it. And then they practice kissing. Soft kisses, hard kisses, little teasing kisses, deep kisses, nibbling kisses, all kinds. They try out the techniques. When you’re young, the gals are way way ahead of the guys when it comes to kissing ’cause they have tried out a bunch of things.”

“Wow,” I said, thinking about it. “That’s, um, cool.”

“Yeah, it’s a fine thing to ruminate on.”


“Ruminate. Cogitate. Ponder.”

I stared at him.

“To think about it.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right. Ruminate, right.”

“Yup, it’s a fine, fine thought. Yup. Girls kissing each other. . . .” His voice kind of trailed off.

“Uncle Man?” I said after a moment.

“Mmmmmm,” was all he said, his eyes looking far, far away.

“Uncle Man?” I said again.

“Hmm? What?”

“It’s not really fair, is it?” I asked.

“What isn’t?”

“That girls get to kiss other girls.”

“Nope,” he said. “It’s not fair. Girls get to practice kissing. And we don’t. Not usually, anyway.”

“Not usually?”

“Never mind.”


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“Secret Sex, A Book Alive Online,” written and lived by John Scott G, is Copr. © 2011-2012 by JSG, all rights reserved under U.S. and international copyright conventions. Commercial use in any form is forbidden without express written permission of the author. Originally published on with permission. Credits: Book cover design: Phil Hatten; Author Photo: Phil Hatten.