Sick Game

I’ve stumbled (literally) across a school of game that is even more effective than hangover game: Sick game.

I met up with a buddy at a bar even though I was deep under the influence of a viral load. Cabin fever and the call of the wild coaxed me off my sofa. I warned him ahead of time that I would be absent as a wingman that night.

Coughing, sniffling, and hacking up loogies on the walk over, I dragged myself up to the roof deck and propped myself against the bar, or rather, leaned heavily against the bar to support my weakened body. Three girls situated themselves nearby. Even in my fuzzy mental state I knew a proximity indicator of interest when I saw one.

One of the girls was decent looking, but naturally I was in no mood to attempt her seduction. I just wanted to take in the spectacle, sip my ginger ale, and infect everyone with my contagious joy. But this girl moved closer and it would have been criminal of me to deny her the satisfaction of a proper gaming. So I opened her. Angrily.

“So what’s your deal?”

“My deal? This is my first time at this place.”

“Are those your friends over there?”

“Yes.” She waved at them and they wanly smiled back.

I growled. “Just make sure they don’t cockblock. I need space to sweep you off your feet.”

The seduction continued for fifteen minutes. My body language was… aloof. Sickly aloof. I don’t think I turned my head more than once to give her a sidelong glance. My mouth hung open taking in oxygen. My eyes were watery. My voice sounded muffled ricocheting off my phlegmy sinuses. I barely spoke, prefering to nod or give one word answers when she asked me questions. I didn’t smile once, not even when she tried to be funny. When she laughed, I didn’t laugh with her. When she thrust her impressive bosom in my face, I didn’t take notice. More than a few times I interrupted her conversation by coughing loudly into my hand. I allowed long, uncomfortable silences to linger when she ran out of things to say. Invariably, she would be the one to fumble frenetically for a topic to restart the conversation.

And after fifteen minutes? I number closed her. More precisely, I opened my phone and she grabbed it and punched in her number before I could even finish asking her for it.

Women are always saying they want men to “be themselves”. They want sincerity and candor. Well, nothing brings out the sincerity like sickness. I was truly “being myself”, my glorious, uncaring, indifferent, asshole self. And that’s the man that women love.

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