The company of strangers

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

New York was cathartic. Being alone in one of the largest cities in the world is a great way to discover the person inside. I’m not who I thought. First of all, I never could have done this trip a year ago. I would have called friends or retreated to the communal safety of LA. But I didn’t. Instead, I bitch-slapped the old Rob into submission and went headstrong through what some call "the western most European city."

In New York I fell in love. A thousand times. A thousand, milllion times. With the street names. With the tall, dressed-down models at ATMs. With the vegetarian rolls at Nobu and with the sweet smells of life at the Havana Café. Because, as many times as I’ve visited this great city in the past, I had never done it with such intentions. After I found out the Olympics were not happening, I decided to keep the pace at The Maritime Hotel until Thursday. I would walk the streets, awake and alive, ready for whatever was in store for me.

I dodged coke dealers outside the nebulous APT and sipped Basil Hayden at the Brandy Library. I was inauspicious in my own vices, drinking, eating and living all the city had to offer. I was not a tourist, but a curious inhabitant with a full glass of sunshine. I took the best parts of New York and assembled them in my head. The more I loved New York, the more I hated LA. That was beginning to scare me. Because I knew this was a summer love in the middle of winter. That I would one day have to go back to my home, to my job. To the girl I was fondling on a regular basis. As much as I wanted to clear my mind, I didn’t want to cloud my judgement.

The fantasy came to an end on Thursday as I took my seat on the 2:30 flight from JFK to LAX. Next to me were some extremely hot model types. All dark hair. They were too short for runway, but it seemed like they were in something in NY. They asked to see my NY times entertainment, and from what I could glean, it was to see if they were in it. Also on the plane was a pregnant Tim Curry. His spare tire and gray beard made him undetectable. Unfortunately, I recognized him and immediately reflected his age-appropriate body on my own. Someday I could be him. He was not the fantastic transvestite from Rocky Horror. He was an old, out of shape man. Hopefully he carries enough cachet to at least get a Hollywood blowjob now and then. At least from the aspiring models.

And the plane ride ended as expected. Riding into LAX one of the models dry heaving in an air bag. It provided the perfect mental landing to my return to the vapid world that I seem to love. As much as I learned about myself on the trip, I would need a month of Sundays to understand what makes me love L.A. But I do love it.

I planned to get on my blog, but it never happened. My waking hours were spent experiencing, not documenting. But I knew I had to get back to my Jessica story. And the world I had made for myself in L.A.

I'm back, and strangely enough, couldn't be happier.

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Hatin'

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I never wanted to be pissy on this blog. I always thought I would practice positivity, it would be the one venue in my life where the negative would be overruled. However, I've had something on my mind since the Super Mega Game that I just can't shake. It is rocking me to my very core and I need to get it off my chest... I need to vent.

I hate Jimmy Fallon.

It began a while ago. I found him to be a strange talentless egomaniac that looks like he's had a million face lifts and peels. Generally, I get along with those sort of people, living in LA and everything. But I think he has what Simon refers to as the "X factor," but in a really bad way. The Pepsi commercial continually sends me over the top. Seriously. I used to love Parker Posey. I used to imagine a million different ways to violate her. But her "epileptic car dancing" has changed all that.God, I yearn for the days of Henry Fool. It was a much simpler time for sexual fantasy.

Anyway, I may be taking a bit of a break and get out of this town. I got a call today at the high point of my Fallon rage and there's a good chance I will be on a plane to New York and maybe some other places.

A friend asked if I wanted to go to the Olympics. No fucking shit. I asked myself, WWRLD? Well guess what? I've never been to Europe. I've never seen the Olympics. I've never really taken a chance on something so fucking spontaneous. I still have some money left over from my 30th so I might just take him up on it. I love chicks with mustaches. And carbs.

Hope everyone has a great weekend. I will be back in a week or so, depending on my luck with the NY or Italian women. I'm just waiting to see if my friend comes through. It's all on him now. I'm fucking in. I already purchased a hockey ticket for Tuesday. That was the easy part, the plane, that's another story. Almost 4k. There goes my New Years resolution.

Wish me luck. This is the craziest thing I've done in a while. But I am starting to worry that I am entering a 30ish comfort zone, and I need to experience life before my complacency gets the best of me.

By the way, if you masturbate on a plane is that considered the "Mile High Club?" I think self-sex is the only way for me to join, and I'd like to check it off my list.

Happy trails. Tomorrow, I'm on a plane. Hope I don't see Fallon in NY.

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We have a winner.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.


And your favorite ex-virgin is...

Jenni, whose tale of losing her flower in a midwest muscle car won the hearts of everyone at roblowecanyougo. Jenni is the proud recipient of a super great, brass big ultra game pin fit for any occasion.

Please join me in giving big ups to our devilish blogger friend who likes to get down in the back seat of F-bodies. She truly deserves everyone's love.

Peace
rl

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Ticket to Jessica

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I was a failure with the realtor chick. My idea of "flipping" her never came to fruition. Flying blind in unfamiliar territory can make even the best constructed plan nosedive. Thankfully, I'm now in a headspace where the whole thing can be put in a package and neatly rationalized away. It's the defense mechanism of self-esteem.

For days afterwards I deconstructed the game, every step, every half-joke, every non-existent hair flip. I hit my mark, said my lines, yet the audience was not listening. Anything I did flirty was met with disdain, anything I did cute (and I did do some cute things according to Daniel) was met with an obtuse sense of imbalance. I wish I could say she was married, attached or a lesbian. But that would not be the truth. We were not meant to communicate. We were probably never meant to meet. We were meant to be perfect strangers for life. But bad luck can only last so long. A nice gut punch of humility goes a long way in my book. I'm moving on, a better person.

Thursday of last week was a good night for Rob Lowe and his protégé Cali. And I want to tell you all about it in painfully delightful detail. Because no one wants to go into the loser’s locker room to learn about failure. So instead, I waited until I became a winner. And what better way to claim victory than through a late-night squire of Esquire’s sexiest woman alive, Jessica Biehl.

I arrived around 7pm to a party at Lucky Strike Lanes. I hesitate to even call it a bowling alley, even though there were balls, lanes and euro-styled shoes. No, this was Disneyland bowling to a hip-hop soundtrack, complete with MAWs, gourmet food and a dress code, of which I broke at least three rules upon entering. Luckily, the bouncer had a soft spot for Rob Lowe and waved me in, doors t-shirt, ripped jeans, K-Fed skull cap and all.

The party was hosted by MTV and there were about 50 people in a private room next to the main alley. I saw my friend BBQ and made my way over for a manhug. He let me know that Jessica Biehl was in the alley next to us, on the Jersey side of the curtain.

Cali went straight for the buffet and I grabbed a beer with the junkie. It took us about 10 minutes to realize that Jessica Biehl was the girl from 7th Heaven, not Jessica Alba, nor was she Jennifer Beals. The conversation seemed superfluous, but I exacted every word into my conscience. There was definitely a neg there, one I would use if I decided to redeem myself from the dime-a-dozen real estate woman. That night, I had one set in mind, and it would be with one of the hottest, bad girl actresses I could think of. And I would do it without a net, without a celebrity wingman, without hesitation.

The Game has offered me great insight, but it is used most effectively when it is simply a foundation. The top game-runners in the book had different strategies. Some used hypnosis or suggestion, others used engaging opening lines and still others used magic. I truthfully couldn’t imagine myself adopting any of the lines or gimmicks these guys used. But I could see myself using the strategies. Finding the idea behind the words and come up with openers that work best for me. I consider it like this: For many, the book is a food drop. They eat the rations that they do not produce. But for me, I used the insight as a seed, a renewable food source that I could grow where and where I wanted. It could germinate and flourish under my stewardship. If I could abstract and adopt, I could overcome. Ok, enough of the metaphors.

I took a lap to see what information I could glean from Jessica’s set. There were about 8 girls and one guy that looked kind of strange and chunky. He was definitely not worthy to be in the presence of such a stunning creature. Maybe he won a contest to hang out with her, I thought mid-stride. Hollywood turns me evil.

All around her were cute girls, but nothing even close to Jessica. I took that to mean that she is not that superficial. Many celeb chicks have a minimum beauty requirement to run in their set. Hotter than the average chick, but not hotter than the celeb is a accepted rule-of-thumb.

I also noticed that she was using the name “lesbo” on the bowling computer and they all were relatively drunk. One girl especially caught my eye, not because of her beauty, but because of her relationship to the mark. She seemed the closest.

I went back to the room and downed another bowling pin Bud light. The waitress made some sublime comment about it being a penis, and I enabled the theory as I kept getting my bottle taken by this dude who was drinking a bud version of the same beer and looking at me. Finally, I grabbed a Heineken, which definitely lowered the kitsch factor.

I put the pieces together in my head. Normally, in a set with guys and girls, it is important to immediately locate and win over the AMOG (Alpha Male of Group) while steering clear of the mark almost completely. But this doughboy was not an alpha male even by Christopher Lowell standards. This guy was barely male. So instead, I adapted and would focus on the alpha female of the friend group. I called her streak because she had a dyed streak going through her hair.

I had two negs in mind, one for Streak and one for Jessica. I took a breath and entranced the set. Right now, Jessica was not my focus. It was Streak. And through her, I could endear myself to Jessica. The plan worked on paper. I would run without a wing, although BBQ and Cali were there to watch me smolder. I felt invigorated. At that point, I didn’t care what happened. I think that was the thing that kept me there. There was no smell of desperation on my breath. The confidence of three beers was all that could be inhaled.

I approached her from across the table, making sure to gain eye contact along the way. The rear approach works best after the pickup. Her radar needed to pick up my blip, and it did.

I smiled and put my beer on her table.

“I’m Rob Lowe,” I said, turning things around. My name was no longer my liability. It was my ability. It was my icebreaker. It was my ticket to Jessica.

“I’m Stacy,” she said, as unsure of what was to come as I was.

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Vote for your Favorite Ex-Virgin

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I may like Georgia O'Keefe, but I love Ryan Seacrest. He’s so soft and lovable, especially when he shines those baby browns at me in the Cingular store. There is only us in the world. And now, in the spirit of bonded metrosexuality, I offer the following homage in dialogue, “The lines are now open.” Now, if I could only get a better haircut and bad religion jeans, I would be set.

First let me say, I could read virginity stories all day. I think Saturday, I did. But unfortunately, we need to get down to voting. Use the poll to on the right side of the homepage to vote for your favorite deflowerment story. From college dorms to sore vaginas to pen knives, we've got a story for just about every taste. So eat up!

I'm about to go get some meds. Basketball is killing me again. The bruised rib feels better on the left side. Maybe its because the bruised rib on the right hurts so much worse. I could barely sleep last night through all the pain. But I was informed that three advils + two tylenol gelcaps=crazy delicious.

I'm also a bit sad about one of my favorite players leaving the game. Jimmy, a soft-core porn star (actually, he only made one) played his final game with me last night. He's 70 and is off to Florida to spend time with his 90-year-old mother. It was very endearing. I knew it was the last time I would ever see him. Life just ticks away.

The yang of Jimmy leaving happened Thursday night in Hollywood. It was truly the highlight of my short-lived career as a PUA. I even changed my blogger picture to a memorable moment of internal joy from that night. If you can't see the splendor in my eyes, I'll recount it to you in the coming days. Suffice it to say that I brought my A-game face-to-face with Esquire's Sexiest Woman Alive. I owe it all to the power of the neg.

I'll keep the voting open for a few days, but it can't be forever. I know there are anxious ex-virgins waiting for this brilliant brass-plated collectible to pin on their lapel. Already, the price has risen to $4 for buy-in-now on eBay.

So vote, vote, vote, and as soon as I piece together the details in my head from Thursday night, I'll share them. It was truly a night to remember.

Bye Jimmy.

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Big Mega Game Bowl Virginity Contest

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I've been a bit goofy lately. Maybe its the sleep/food/sex/oxygen deprivation that my body is going through. Actually, I've lived my life without the sex, but once you start consuming it on a regular basis, the absense is crazy strange.

Everyday I watch the chronic video from SNL. It just makes me smile. I'm silly and tired and flirty and gonzo. But there is a method to my madness. Stay with me on this.

On Tuesday, a nameless friend of mine was interviewed by a nameless entertainment trade publication. During the pre-interview, the off-the-record subject of mixed race couples came up and the writer readily announced, "I lost my virginity to a black girl." My friend thought nothing of it, but I found a simple relevance in that disclosure.

How often do most people offer that type of info to a complete stranger? Personally, I'll serve my between-the-sheets activity up on a plate. My sexuality (or lack of it) is an open page on Web. From near-grandmas to near jailbait to dual-hookers, my sex life is announced for the world to see. But my adolescent sex life can't compare to the wild happenings of 2005. And I can prove it to you.

I lost my virginity at age 16 along a dark stretch of a PA road to a girl from Colorado. She was tall, blonde and helped me check a life milestone off my list. Other than that, I was very nervous about what was happening inside and outside the car. PA roads can be scary at night. So can vaginas.

Anyway, I was wondering if anyone else would like to share details on their most intimate right of passage. Whether it was lost last night or 20 years ago, I'm sure people would love to hear about it. You can even do it anonymous in the comments.

After all the comments are in, we can vote for our favorite story in the poll. That person will win a fantastic, limited-edition, brass plated, Detroit Big Mega Game Bowl pin, courtesy of Rob Lowe. It's the perfect flair for any post-virginal occasion.

And this contest is not just for straight guys and girls. A loss of a behymen is just as valid in my book.

Bring on the stories. Don't be afraid.

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