'Maul her,' he said.
'What?' I said.
'Wait until she has to go to the bathroom. After about a minute, go by the entrance. When she comes out, just maul her.'
He went back to eating. He said it like he was explaining where the frozen food section in the grocery store was located. I got the feeling my interaction with Rob was going to be short - i.e,. he didn't seem like he was dying to talk to me about something he considered obvious - so I lasered in and demanded he proffer more information.
'What do you mean?'
'She comes out, grab her by the back of the head and kiss her. Push her up against a wall if there's one. Just maul her.'
I laughed. This was sexual assault. He was fucking with me. Right?
'What if she freaks out?'
'There's a fifty-fifty chance she'll smack you. But anybody would play those odds in Vegas.'
Then he winked and went back to work on his penne.
What the fuck? My pragmatic, engineering mind needed more data, more parameters, more booze.
'But what about seduction, leading her in, taking it slow?' I asked with a half-joking face, but 1000 percent deadly earnest.
He laughed like I was a Mormon sitting there in nothing but my magic underpants.
And that was my one and only exchange with Rob Lowe.
I asked Chad about it later. Of course, he knew about 'The Maul' and felt it was, by far, his brother's best piece of advice about getting women. He even let me in on some of its finer points. For example, if the maulee DOES get offended or push you away like yesterday's meatloaf, you can be sure that she was NEVER going to hook up with you anyway. If she giggles or turns a cheek, buy her a drink and give her an hour to let it all percolate.
I didn't maul the girl that night. I didn't maul anyone for years, to be honest. At the time, I was locked into this rut of serial monogamy. Plus, I kind of thought Rob's 'advice' was frivolous. It definitely didn't have the same cerebral French courtier feel you might find in Robert Greene's 'Laws of Seduction.' It just seemed trite and comical.
Over the years, however, the one thing that stuck with me was when he set the odds on The Maul: '50/50... Anybody would play those odds in Vegas.'
It made me laugh that Rob Lowe would use some sort of crude numerical analysis to describe the likelihood that one stranger could successfully lie in wait for another stranger outside a public restroom with the intent of surprising and then making out with said stranger. He actually assigned a mathematical probability to it. And it wasn't 60/40 or 70/30. Nope, it was fucking 50/50, straight down the middle. It reminded me of a great video clip I once saw where some redneck with a lottery ticket was asked by the reporter if he knew what his chances of winning were. He thought about it for a second and said, 'Fifty/Fifty - either you win or you lose.'
Either you make out or you get rejected. Simple as that.
As I thought more on it, I began to realize that 50/50 odds were not so random. Although it struck me as arbitrary when Rob first said it, it started to seem... perfect. The marital success rate in America is just below 50 percent. The success rate of relationships in general is WAY less than 50 percent. Most good NBA players shoot just under 50 percent from the floor. If 50 percent of registered voters vote for Obama, that negro wins in a landslide! Shit, it seems that in ANY life situation where the outcome isn't entirely up to you, 50/50 are THE ABSOLUTE BEST odds you can create!
In other words, The Maul has the best odds you can hope to get in a similar situation and it already incorporates failure into its parameters. No one can think The Maul will always work. At best, it will only work half the time. But when accounted for as part of the gamble, the potential for loss is not only reasonable, it becomes part of the fun. Without the high risk, there's no point in even doing it. The possibility of a punch in the mouth is almost as exciting as the possibility of a nipple in the mouth.
If you can stack the odds to reach 50/50 at the blackjack table with some sort of Ben Mezrich MIT math club scheme, you would dedicate your life to blackjack. 'Anybody would play those odds in Vegas.' This started to sound less like a lark and more like Einstein's elusive unifying field theory as it pertains to the slippery slopes of sexual dynamics.
I finally broke free from my monogamist cycle when I got dumped and didn't instantly park my residual emotions in the vagina of someone who'd do in a pinch. Rob's words immediately circled back to the forefront of my brain.
I decided to give The Maul a try. I didn't get slapped in the face. We made out on a sidewalk in an awkward bit of PDA that climaxed as I pushed her up against the corrugated steel covering the façade of a closed Petland Discounts store. They say you shouldn't use a hammer when you need a scalpel. As we walked away holing hands, shyly wiping the wetness off our mouths like we just left a Tyler Perry reunion barbecue, I still couldn't help but laugh at the hammer-like bluntness of 'The Maul.'
Since then, I have been pushed away, received a few turned cheeks and, once, a hearty laugh in the face from Kim Cattrall on the set of 'Sex and the City.' (hey, I was improvising during the scene, it was a choice!) One girl even bit my tongue until it bled and a drop of pee gurgled out of my penis. True story.
But I have YET to be slapped in the face. Apparently, I'm beating the odds.
Over the years, I've had to perfect my own 'Maul.' It can't be a face-rape, but it also can't be a slow, REO Speedwagon on the dance floor, romantic comedy, swirling cameras as the crowd slow-claps type of embrace. You can't grab her around the hips and dry hump her like a Persian at an LA dance club. You have to make eye contact, take 3-4 steps, then come in close for a last nano-second systems check (i.e. she might recoil when you get close) before placing your hand at the back of her head and proceeding. Don't eat her face. Procure it, and make the kiss gentle but firm like you're slurping up an ice cream cone.
Typically, you'll get at least 2-3 seconds leeway before they exercise the slightest bit of reservation or judgment. They might push you away and laugh or peer at you with that quasi-'how dare you' look. Let them. You made your interest known as clear as you possibly can. Let it sit with them. If she doesn't have too many hang-ups and if your breath wasn't corpse anus-y and if you didn't kiss her like a Roger Corman, brain-eating zombie, then most of the time, the opportunity comes back. If not, she was just hanging out with you because she thought you were gay.
Even if you get rejected right away, you shouldn't lose heart. It's rare that I go for The Maul and don't at least make out at SOME point that night - that is, if they're drunk enough to stick around. And I have found that far from being offended, women are into it or are, at least, flattered and titillated - flatterlated, if you will.
Best of all, The Maul saves so much money on appetizers, dinners, drinks, and Pinkberry. Make your intentions clear, expose her for wanting you too, and 'just maul.' Do it right and, guess what, maybe she'll start paying for her own goddamn meals!!! Don't get me wrong, I have no real problem with paying for my dates. It's just that, when all is said and done, I think part of me prefers the Rob Lowe Key Hand-Off. Less gas. More ass. I'm running for President in 2016 on that platform. That, and "Hillary Clinton is a Monstrous Cunt"
In reality, I just haven't had the opportunity, or the balls, to do the key hand-off, Plus, like Chad, I'm not fuckin' Rob Lowe.
Posted by Bill Dawes at 2:29 PM