The Approach: Turning Initial Attraction into the Right Kind of Attention

by Julie Robinson 

 “All I can say is, ‘WOW’,” my brand spanking new No. 1 fan says with so much enthusiasm I have to look over at my friend Troy who—surprise, surprise—is rolling his eyes to high heaven.  “You are quite a singer there, little lady—no disrespect to you,” he motions to Troy who simply shrugs his shoulders. 

“Don’t worry about him,” I say waving my hands around Troy like a flaming traffic cop.  “He’s my buddy.”

After my Biggest Fan Ever lumbers away Troy leans over obviously pissed, “What do you mean ‘Nobody’? When did I become NOBODY to you?” We both laugh at the confusion and stop abruptly as we notice Biggest Fan Ever hovering over us.

BFE:  Here’s my phone number.  I really hope you call me.  I was so incredibly impressed with your stage presence.  Call me, okay?  You’re gonna call me, right?

ME:  What’s your name, anyway?

BFE:  Ricky.  As in Ricky Martin?  Okay.  I have to go meet up with my friends—don’t forget to call me.  I really want you to call me. 

Ricky is a tall, thin, really tan and handsome man who probably—based on his level of excitement--dabbles a bit too much with crack cocaine.  That or he didn’t take his meds at all this week and is spiraling into a fit of mania.  Troy and I agree that my rendition of Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason to Stay Here” doesn’t warrant his level of euphoria, but I also question his approach:  Would I have been happy to call this man if he approached me differently?


My all-time most successful approach occurred in line for a port-a-potty in New Orleans during Jazz Fest.  I had gotten separated from my friends because I had to pee so badly, and so I knew absolutely no one.  I felt emboldened.  A dark haired, lanky cutie was standing a few people behind me, and I noticed that he had a pager (Now, this was the early 90’s—waaaaay before cell phones and no one I knew had a pager).  I got out of line, swaggered in his direction in a manner I hoped looked more sexy than drunk and said: “You’re either a drug dealer or a doctor—but either way, I would sure like to get to know you.”  His broad smile, rosy blush, and quick wit eventually led to a night of dancing AND fucking AND numerous flights back to New Orleans over the next year.  On one of those trips we even had sex in the residents “suite” in his hospital.

Empowered women make for sexy approaches—or do they?  Take Shannon, for instance.  Shannon asked me the first day I moved into my new living quarters if Leo (my future roommate) was fuck-able.  I thought he was a really cute high-powered attorney, so seeing that I would be his roommate he was off limits to me—not Shannon.  According to Leo, Shannon asked for my permission a few times before she came to him with this approach:

SHANNON:  Here’s the deal, Leo.  I need to know if you are willing to have sex with me tonight.  Mind you—I’m only interested in a one-night-stand.  I don’t want to receive any texts, phone calls, or those really annoying little notes you pass through your roommate to see if I like you.  I simply want to have sex with you.  Once.  Now.  And, so if you’re interested, I will continue drinking . . . . If not, I’ll switch to dessert. 

What happened, you want to know?  They both got so fucking high that they stayed up all night laughing.  Even though Leo made a few passes at Shannon, she was too stoned to respond.  That or she’s a tease and can’t pull the trigger.  You take your pick.

I ask Adele about the approaches from strangers she’s responded to over the years.  She mulls the idea over while swirling her wine and then lights up:  “He said, ‘Hello.’”  Instantly, I know who she is talking about and agree that the sexy ones don’t need much of an approach.  “I can also tell you about the bad ones,” she complains.  “Why is a pretty girl like you still single?—LAME.  The fake compliment is the worst.”

So, yeah I have a story from twenty years ago about how I picked up a really hot doctor.  What have I done lately?  How on earth did I get this new, sexy twenty-nine-year-old to talk to me, Adele wants to know.

“It was all in the eyes,” I say thinking back to that night nearly one month ago where I met the sweet young thing who has been rocking my world lately.  “I pointed my index finger out like this (here I mimic one of the Supremes singing back-up—hips and all) and curled my finger back to me.  I didn’t take my eyes off of him.  I know what I want.”

Boy, do I.