A lot of articles at ROK chronicle the tactics employed by men to convince women to play hide the salami with them, often internationally. Back in the 80s, many of us guys employed a game enhancer that is all but disappearing from the scene. We didn’t have a name for it because without the internet or social media, there weren’t a lot of ways to spread hashtags. Today, I call it “proxy sex,” or more accurately “proxy game,” which is when a guy aids another dude in getting laid.

I don’t mean physically helping as in holding a woman down, or coaching a dude to raise his butt higher. Proxy sex is when a guy puts in a good word or two for another dude which closes or enhances the deal. I did this for a colleague’s husband once.

Lisa was a trim, athletic attractive brunette. One day, she was bitching about her husband, Jeff. She was going on how distant he was. I explained, “Look, Lisa. Men are easy. Just give him some real gymnastic sex and make sure he medals.”

So Lisa did just that. She gave Jeff Olympic level sex. When I saw her again, she was real pissed.

“I did what you said, and a lot of good it did!”

Always going for gold, I added, “Sometimes, it takes more than just once.”

I suspected it wouldn’t matter how many times or the manner in which Lisa boffed Jeff, but that didn’t stop me from hooking up a fellow dude bro. Lisa and Jeff eventually divorced, but not before a guy I barely knew got screwed on the uneven bars, and as such, I got laid by proxy.

When a guy helps another guy get ass, it’s as if he’s getting ass too. I’ve done this when I was younger even when I was experiencing a dry spell myself. If I wasn’t getting any, I would default to helping some other guy get some since it’s better to have someone, somewhere getting laid then none of us at all.

I once ran into a girl my roommate, Doug, had a thing for. I knew she wasn’t interested in me. She liked beach volleyball types so I played up my roomies stats then tipped her off that he was in a tournament over the weekend at the local beach. I told Doug she would be there so he brought his A-game. He played so well that he and his doubles partner took first place. Later that night he spirited his dream girl back to our place and took that trophy too. They eventually married. He never knew that I hooked him up through proxy game.

Once my sister’s friend thought she would tap me for some brotherly advice. Her boyfriend stopped communicating and stayed out late with his friends. She wanted to know what I thought was going on. I explained, “Guys get very introspective just before they ask a woman to marry them. He’s probably looking at diamond rings right now.”

Safe to say that dude got his testicles drained that night as his girlfriend attempted to seal the deal. Truth is I thought he was likely getting ready to dump her.

One time, I went for the grand slam. A married friend and his wife were having trouble conceiving. They were considering expensive medical fertility procedures. Now, this is a serious matter and my man-ipulation of the situation was more based on sound medical advice rather than proxy game. I told him about the “Three and Thirty Rule”: to have sex three times every day for thirty days. It’s the advice I give all couples struggling to conceive.

Impregnation is a numbers game. Fact is many married couples do it far less frequently than they might think. The Three And Thirty Rule worked for me. Doctor’s painted a bleak picture for us due to medical concerns. After the best month of my life, my wife was pregnant. I passed this advice to my friend who tried it, and it worked for them too.

My generation was always into ball busting. There was no anti-bullying agenda. You developed a sharp tongue or a hard punch. The unwritten rule about ridiculing a friend was “never in front of the girl you liked.” It was a curtsey kind of thing like the British infantry never shooting at officers. Unfortunately not everyone back then subscribed to this gentlemen’s agreement. One night, a friend brought along his cousin on a night out.


Jerry was not a welcomed addition. He had the annoying habit of interrupting me just as I was reeling in a punch line. He would interject a lame comment which made us all look like douchebags for hanging with him such as, “So what do think about Oliver North?”

Secretly, I wished Jerry would choke on that little umbrella in his drink. Jerry had to get drunk to grow balls big enough to talk to women which meant he wasn’t getting anything tonight or any time soon for that matter. I never drank when I was out because that deliberately dulled the senses including the ability to detect fat.

I had managed to get two girls to show interest in our little group of three, but Jerry was fucking it up with his numbnuts banter. I slipped away when Jerry inserted two straws up his nose then exclaimed, “I am the walrus.”

The two women pity laughed. I made my exit when Jerry continued, “Goo goo g’joob.”

I started talking to a fat chick to get closer to her good looking friend. Back in the 80s, there was plenty of fat shaming and fat chicks knew their place. They were there to clean up the guys who were left on the shores of Dunkirk as the tide receded and the lights came on.

It took awhile, but eventually the fatty sensed I wasn’t drunk and left me with her attractive friend. Things were moving along nicely when I noticed a dude standing to the side of my target. Initially, I thought it was her boyfriend, stalking his girl on a Friday night. Back then, Friday nights were for friends and Saturday nights were for significant others. Friday night was everyone’s “upgrade night.” Sometimes boyfriends got all macho and would challenged a lone male, sniffing up his girlfriend’s skirt. That’s why we always took a wingman.

I was both pissed and horrified to see the dude was Jerry. Best I could tell his cousin got tired of Jerry’s “walrus gumboot” and retreated to more fertile hunting grounds.

“There you are,” Jerry exclaimed.

“Yeah,” I said unenthusiastically trying to convey to my pretty woman that I didn’t care for this clown. Garbage began emanating from Jerry’s mouth, “Is your mom doing your laundry tonight?”

I looked at Jerry then to the attractive woman circling her mixed drink with her finger. On the way over, we were discussing where to find a good tailor, and I mentioned that my mother was an excellent seamstress who would do alterations for a small and reasonable fee. Now, Jerry in his drunken state was using this information to cock block me.

“Does she fold your undies for you too?”

Jerry asked as he guffawed uncontrollably. I looked to my girl who was picking up her belongings, ready to leave. I don’t know if Jerry’s comments or Jerry himself made that woman depart, but depart she did. Jerry just stood there with a dumb look on his face as a black hole of dearth spun just above his head. I thought that no amount of proxy game could ever get this guy laid. Even the fat chicks passed on a ride on the Jerry-mobile which I’m sure would be a let down on par with the first time Priscilla Presley fucked Michael Jackson. The visual made me dry heave.

Unbeknownst to me, Jerry’s cousin was in earshot of the whole exchange. Later, he spoke to my attractive girl to repair the damage, by employing “The Sensitive Guy.” He told her that Jerry was “slow,” but I always treated him like one of the guys, insisting on bringing him out with us. He laid it on thick, telling her that I had a cat named “Tuborg” (his favorite beer) and that I volunteered at a suicide prevention call center. It was all bullshit, but it worked.

This narcissistic world is letting proxy game die an untimely death. You should help out your buddy get circus sex even when your game is off, and if you think you’re a stud that doesn’t need assistance to get on the trapeze with a 9 or 10, then go ahead and sign the waiver. We’ll stop helping you. Just be warned that some of your game might be the result of unseen heroes, tossing you a bone now and again, because I for one got by with more than a little help from my friends.

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