The Ironwood Collection of Alpha Moves (20 page)

We get into the car, buckle up, and the first question comes, as casually as a slow ball over the plate.  "So . . . are we going out to eat?"

"There is food in your future," I promised.

"When?"

"About dinner time," I answer, unhelpfully.

"So where are we going now?  A bar?"

"Nope."

"A restaurant?"

"Not at the moment."

"A concert?"

"No."

Silence.  I can almost hear the wheels turning.  Of course, they're so focused on the evening's itinerary that she isn't paying attention to other details.  I'm kind of counting on that.  I head towards the mall.

"Oh!" she says, as if it's dawning on her.  "We're going to the Mall!"  Well, yeah.

"For a little while," I concede. 
S
he thinks we're going to wander around, look at kids' clothes, sneer good-naturedly at the teenagers trying to look cool, before hitting
Ruby Tuesday's
on the way out.

"Good, Daughter needs new shoes."

"We're not buying kids' shoes."  I say it as flatly as I can.

"Then what
are
we doing?" she asks, irritat
ed.  We're close enough, now.  I figured I m
ight as well tell her
now
.

"We're going shopping.  For you."

The Perfect Red Pill Date Phase Three: Shopping

"Shopping?"
she asks
, expressing shock and disbelief
.  She
knows
I hate shopping.  "
Are you out of your fucking mind?
  It's Saturday night and you're taking me
shopping?
"

"Yep," I assure her.  She looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Do we really have that in the budget?" she asks, hesitantly. 

I handle the bills.  She knows that, and she knows that with three kids and a drive-by niece we have a
lot
of expenses.  She also knows that I won't spend on frivolities when there are expenses to pay.  And she doesn't know about my little freelance windfall.

"It's
handled
," I say, simply and confidently.  "We're going shopping.  For you."

"Oh," is all she can say after a few uneasy minutes.  "I guess that's okay, then."

"I'm
so
glad you approve," I say with just a hint of snark as we pull into the parking lot.  She's looking smug.  Like she's got it all figured out: Mall, clothes, Ruby's, home by nine.  It was seven-thirty now. What could
possibly
happen at the Mall?

By the time we get to the mall, her mood has softened.  She’s accepted the fact that it’s going to be a fun, romantic night, and the unknown element is undeniably exciting.  I don’t bother opening the door for her – we’re still in “casual married people mode” but we do hold hands as we walk inside.

I lead her directly to the door of her favorite store.  I’ve done enough research to know which one in the mall was most likely to be able to have everything she needed.  She pulls me excitedly inside and starts to head for the clearance rack.  She worked several retail jobs in college and she always goes for the bargains first.

I didn’t budge, and when she tried to lead me away by the hand she came up short like a dog that’s run out of leash.  She looked at me, confused.  I dropped her hand and fished out my wallet.

“Here,” I said, handing over the card linked to my freelance account.  “I’m not going in with you.”

“Wha—?”  Her mouth is open.  Pricelessly adorable.

“You have exactly—” glance at watch “exactly
ninety-four minutes
to find and purchase attire suitable for going out to a five-star restaurant.”

“Huh?”
she replied, eloquently.  Our conversation has attracted the attention of both of the store’s sales clerks, who wander close enough to overhear.

“Ninety minutes.  Five star restaurant. 
And
I want you to look
hot.
”

“But . . . but . . . where are we
going?
”
she pleads.

“It doesn’t matter if we’re going to McDonalds in the food court,” I assured her.  “I want you to go buy a complete outfit, down to your unmentionables, and be dressed and ready to go in . . . ninety-
three
minutes, now.”

“Are you fucking
serious?
” she asks, shocked as she realizes that yes, indeed, I
am
fucking serious.

“Try to keep it under $300.00,” I say, casually, as I kiss her on the cheek.  “And try to be
punctual
.”

Then I turn on my heel and walk out.  No further explanation required.

I stole one last peek before I disappeared around the corner, and saw Mrs. Ironwood excitedly explaining what her mission was
to the confused store clerks
.

You see, I
hate
shopping. 

So does she, but she also understands how shopping is not only a necessary aspect of professional womanhood (personal presentation is
very
important in her field) as well as an essential social requirement for female socialization. 

She’s not a “power shopper” by any means.  She eschews jewelry altogether (her father was a jeweler, once-upon-a-time . . . daddy issues) and she’s got weird feet, so she isn’t as mad about shoes as some women.  That doesn't mean I don’t have two-dozen pairs of her
underutilized
shoes in the bottom of my closet, but after talking to some other men, I only have two-dozen pairs in the bottom of my closet.  If my wife has an accessory fetish, it’s purses and handbags.

But she
hates
trying to buy clothes.  Like most women, she’ll try on a dozen things and usually settle on one of the first things she saw.  But the entire process can take several excruciating hours and is, from a male perspective,
hopelessly inefficient. 

So I took the grief out of the equation. 
This way she has a) a deadline b) a budget and c) a very specific mission, to get an outfit for a night out. 
No sales, no bargains, just get what you need. 
Better for me, I wasn’t subjected to said excruciating hours standing by in quiet Betatude, bearing her purse as a symbol of my subjugation.  I went shopping myself.

I have a lovely black suit, tailored, that I picked up at a going-out-of-business sale a few years ago.  Classic cut, clean lines, and it’s suitable for nearly any occasion.  But my dress shirts were abysmal. 

Believe it or not, most porn companies don’t require suit-and-tie for everyday business (and no, they don’t require raw-silk shirts opened to the waist and a couple of gaudy gold chains peeking through your chest hair, either – I usually wear jeans and a t-shirt).  I hadn’t bought a new, nice shirt in ages.  No funerals or court dates lately, and the last wedding we went to I was performing the ceremony and wearing a clerical collar.

It only takes me moments to run out to the car and grab the garment bag with my suit and shoes in it.   I roll into
Macy’s
, feeling like John Travolta in the opening scene of Saturday Night Fever (minus the paint can).  You can almost hear the disco music as I strut.

Back to the Men’s Department – wouldn’t you know, they’re having a buy-one, get-one sale on shirts and ties.  It takes me all of ten minutes to find a white shirt and a light gray shirt in my size.  Another ten to find a belt and two ties – one blue and silver, one gray and silver.  I look longingly at a brown felt crushable fedora, but it not only doesn’t go with my outfit, it’s far too expensive.  I’d drop that kind of dough on a blocked black fedora in my size, perhaps.  I let my own hamster spin for a moment, and then shut it down when I look at my watch.  I’m on a
Mission
.

I pay for my stuff, spending about a hundred bucks, and then use the changing room to put on my suit. 
Decision time.

I go with the gray shirt and tie, as it brings out the gray in my eyes and that tends to inspire more romance than the blue in my eyes.  More importantly, gray and black make me feel
dangerous and sexy
.

I come out a few moments later and get appreciative looks from the dumpy older saleswoman and the horny old queen at the register.  Admiration from both sides of the gender spectrum let me know I look
good
.

Self-Confidence Buff: Objective SR +1

If I went in as John Travolta, I come out as Frank Sinatra. 

I
own
the joint.  I don’t try to disguise the even more confident strut in my step as I cross the mall.  I absorb a few more desiring glances along the way as I make my way into only bar in the mall.
  That’s right ladies.  Ian’s in the house.  Look but don’t touch.

Why a bar?  I was dressed and ready to go, but there was still more than
forty-five minutes
to her deadline.  I called to confirm our reservation while the bartender brought me a
Jameson
’
s
on the rocks.  Only one drink, but the smoky taste of peat-fired Irish whiskey is like an instant shot of masculinity in my mouth.

(
Side Note: Gentlemen, when approaching a bar to purchase a drink, know what you’re going to order
from the moment your foot crosses the threshold.
  There is no worse negative Beta presentation than standing in front of a bar with a perplexed look on your face while you mentally debate the merits of some chick beer with an orange in it or an apple-tini.  KNOW YOUR FUCKING POISON.
)

So, how
do
you properly order a drink as an Alpha-presenting dude?

You enter a bar, you walk confidently to the bar, cash or card in hand, you take up as much space at the bar as you can to attract attention, you
patiently
wait while the patrons with bigger boobs than yours are served, and then you order your drink,
decisively and resolutely.
 

Make it simple: a highball is about as complicated as you want to get.  For
your
presentation’s sake,
try to
stick to a single liquor
,
on the rocks or neat.  I usually recommend against beer on Date Night simply because of the awkward potential for gas. 
“Jameson’s, Rocks,”
and a self-assured toss of your head should be all the discussion with the bartender you need.  But it doesn’t matter what it is,
as long as you nail it and move on.

Sorry.  I used to be a bartender.  Some pet peeves stick with you.

I nursed my drink for half an hour, checking
in
with the sitter, checking email for the final time in the evening, and checking traffic on the way to the restaurant. 
Gotta
love a smartphone.

At fifteen-minutes until deadline I finished my drink and went outside for a smoke. 

I was relaxed, I looked good, I smelled good, dammit, I
felt
good.  I felt like James Bond in that suit.  I tried to nurse that vibe, incorporate it into my presentation. 

Bond. 
James
Bond.
  Licensed to Kill. 

Ironwood. 
Ian
Ironwood.  Licensed to thrill.

Of such things are masculine fantasies built.

I arrived at the store ten minutes early on the off-chance she was ready.  She wasn’t, of course, but I got to spend that last ten minutes bantering and flirting with the two salesladies while my wife got dressed. 

They were positively
gushing
with how freakin’ romantic I was and how lucky she was to have me . . . with her overhearing every word in the dressing room not twelve feet away.

Preselection Buff: Relative SR +1

PLUS
, she got the undivided attention of two salesladies who had elected themselves her honorary handmaidens that night.  She got to feel like a princess – a stressed, anxious princess trying to get her Spanx on before deadline, but a princess nonetheless.  The attention paid to her femininity by those two women helped inflate her own self-confidence, pushing up her own Sex Rank by at least a point.