paul janka's tale of the cab ride and apartment

I have the smallest apartment in Manhattan. Literally. And yet, I screw more and better looking girls than all my friends in the City, many who have infinitely nicer digs.

The 6 minute ride from my favorite lounge to my apartment is a crucial testing period. If I have my hand in her panties and her mouth is around my cock, she passes the test. Everyone’s happy. That isn’t often the case. More usually, they’re coming back to your place, a bit tipsy, and now would be a good time to test the physical boundaries a bit. Kissing, breast and crotch action is explored. Also, their willingness to put their hands on my alerted member is usually telling. I only give my home address when getting into the cab. If the woman wants to “get another drink” somewhere else at 1am on a Tuesday night, she’s being difficult.

Which brings us to axiom 42:

Most difficult women remain difficult.

It’s like Newton’s First Law of Motion (I was a physics major in college). Opening your wallet all over town in the fading hope that this chic is going to give it up is a rookie move. Always be prepared to walk from the pussy, particularly at the cab ride stage. It’s like ripping off a Band-AidTM – it’s better to do it in one move. It will sting for 20 seconds. Go upstairs, jerk-off, check you wallet to note that you just saved yourself $50 and go to sleep. “Next!”

I have the smallest apartment in Manhattan. Literally. My friend Micah and I laugh about hosting a dinner party in this large closet, complete with a butler carrying hors-oeuvres on a silver dinner tray. The place has one window, no kitchen, a shared bathroom down the hall and a little mini-fridge that sits above incongruous $2000 Armani suits in the closet. And yet, I screw more and better looking girls than all my friends in the City, many who have infinitely nicer digs.

The reason is two-fold: the power of the system to bring the woman to a point of no-return, and second, what I will call “presentation” but which is actually an optical illusion. The system, from first meeting on the street 3 days prior, has worked magically, and the woman is all but ready to get naked. The apartment, at this stage is simply a private place to shag, whereas it usually is a tremendous bargaining chip in the male population’s never ending quest to copulate. The other reason, having to do with presentation, is comical, yet effective, and bears elaboration.

As said, I live in a box. A box in the most expensive neighborhood in the country, but a box, nonetheless. As the woman trails behind me at 2am, ascending the stairwell to my floor, I have the plan in place. There is only a single leather chair with ottoman in my apartment, and here she must sit. I’ve usually prepared before heading out that night, and so all the lights are off and there are a couple of candles and matches by the front door. I’ve found that women will tolerate most anything, provided the experience is candle-lit.

So I lead, opening the door into darkness, immediately grabbing a candle or two. These I light, place on either side of the generous leather chair, motioning to her to have a seat as I remove her coat. Coat hung in the closet, candles flickering laterally, she gets cozy in the leather. We are ensconced in a little globe of light, the outlines of my meager apartment hardly visible beyond.

It’s all yours from here…