Another self-indulgent WOT, my apologies.

It's amazing how your battle training comes back to you in times of need -- or if not your actual training, then at least your many hours of spirited online debate. In the heat of war, these very discussion threads weave themselves through my consciousness, stitching a golden seam of intent, fastening a sturdy and inescapable bolt of lacework around my prey.

Sorry! Getting a little prolix there.

Anyway, I'm not going to give a lengthy [FR] on the weekend's success, just a mention of a couple of old standards that always seem to come through for me.

In reverse order of usefulness on Saturday night, the first little gem was 'Rinse and Repeat'. Simply remembering that this method existed was enough to put me completely at ease as I found myself facing monumental LMR (last minute resistance) which would have utterly destroyed the old me (by which I mean paradoxically the younger me).

As we made out on the couch she would occasionally push me away and say 'Should we, really...?' Now and then she would bat away my searching hands, even going so far as to refasten her bra -- twice! Surely an indication that I had gone as far as possible, no?

Ah, what the juvenile me would have done to learn the true meaning of LMR -- and it's antidote!

Call it misogyny, male chauvinism, outdated stereotyping, pop psychology, if you like, but I know it to be true. 'The lady doth protest too much.' She desires coupling just as much as you, but has been educated since childhood to present otherwise. And my lady certainly turned in a sterling performance.

But at each rebuff, I would sit back on the chair, assume a leisurely pose, and perhaps leaf through a magazine. It was my house. I had a drink. The music was on. I wasn't tired. 'Where's the rush,' I thought? 'And what's this I see here about the Federal Reserve? Goodness..!'

Of course not thirty seconds would elapse before she would throw herself upon me, again and again, committing herself ever more vigorously to the task, until at last she gave up that one last final inch which, by virtue, I had been thus far denied.

Oh, the hypnotic power of repetition, repetition. (In the old days, they probably just called it 'patience'.)

Second in my armoury of lust, and occurring first chronologically, was the hallway kiss. My friend, I cannot over-emphasise the dizzy usefulness of this simple tool in rearranging your young belle's state of mind, as it instantly propels her thoughts to the evening's inevitable conclusion.

Whenever I bring a potential partner home, and I mean every single time, as soon as we walk through the main doors of my building, I press her up against the wall in the darkness and kiss her. Just once. But hard.

Then, without a word, we wend our way up the stairs as if nothing at all had happened. But it has. The air is charged. There is no need now for that nervousness or clumsy fumbling which precedes the act; both she and I now know that IT is going to happen. The pretence under which they allowed themselves to be brought here has dissolved absolutely (e.g. 'You can come up for just one drink, but then I really have to kick you out. I'm getting up early.')

tl;dr: If I were Marty McFly, I wouldn't visit my dad in high school; I would visit me.