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There’s been a revolution in sexual practices that passed me by (have you seen Tinder? I’m a dinosaur – a missionary man in a reverse-cowgirl world. Inane openers do break the ice, but stop you from reaching anything deeper. I crave male company so go home and watch Expendables II. I discover that coffee dates can work when you’re not in the office headspace. I tell her I was running late and had to elbow a granny out of the way to get off the train. The scatter-gun concept works: by the time I meet my fourth woman, the jitters that can ruin a more conventional date are gone. I meet a former colleague, C, who I’ve been lusting after for years. It’s a pretty good pie, too, but she doesn’t go over.

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Society tells them they’re beautiful and they’re mad at Tinder and Ok Cupid for not providing better prospects. I’m the average-looking sidekick, “the one who online dates,” and it’s my fault they aren’t having a better time.

My best friend, who looks like the racially ambiguous lovechild of Brad Pitt and Pocahontas, waves her phone at me in righteous indignation. Several of my “classically attractive” friends are pissed.

The theory goes that when you’re learning a skill – whether it’s ninjutsu or 21st century mating rituals – you’ll make greater progress if you practise intensively. After 30 minutes on Tinder – the app that lets people hook up with the swipe of a finger – frantically registering my interest with no regard for acne, bodyweight or bad teeth, I’m rewarded with several matches. “If you want to appear confident, be armed with something to open with. Talk about the weather if you have to.” K from Tinder is a nice, slightly chubby nanny. Loads can't) My second nanny of the day, teetotal L, again from Lovestruck.

For the next month, I’m going to date as many women as possible. I’m met by E at a Tube station on a freezing Sunday night. She’s from Lovestruck, originally from Riga, and works in Mayfair for an oil company. I suspect she would put out if we met over wine, rather than coffee and cake. Sublime planning means I only have to walk 100m to my next date, B from Lovestruck, who sadly hasn’t walked 100m herself in quite some time. Delightfully dim but, that apart, she’s not my type.

If it works, I’ll be cruising through meet-ups on a kind of irresistible autopilot. My four o’clock, J from Lovestruck, is an attractive career woman in her forties. Arranging dates in a small geographical area is vital if you’re stacking, but timing is a minefield. I dribble out the same chat and by the fourth date, I just want to go home.

But there’s a lot of catching up to do, as I discover when I sign up for a dozen sites, apps and singles nights. A couple of hours beforehand I have a pep talk with dating expert Hayley Quinn, who warns me that coffee dates often seem like job interviews. Not a single one of my marathon dates contacts me for a second meet-up. I head to a Mayfair nightclub for speed dating (originaldating.com), counting each four-minute contact as 0.25 of a date.

My eye color isn’t interesting, and my hair is always feral.

I’m not ugly, but I don’t have much beauty privilege (and make no mistake, beauty privilege yields tangible rewards). “I don’t have to.” [Go ahead, ladies, make the first move.

Now I’m ready to give it another shot, because I’ve hit upon a theory – one that will exorcise my dating demons and turn me into a great seducer of women. If we’d met on a Friday, who knows what would have happened. I think she enjoyed our chat but it was hard to tell. I produce a biography of Tito from my bag but the coincidence fails to stimulate conversation. Apparently women like someone noticing little details in their outfit. Conversation – or the lack of it – has been playing on my mind.

It’s called meta-learning and, while it sounds like -style pick-up artistry, it’s far less arch. Here's 5 grooming tips to grab her attention) Later, I line up dates on the various websites I’ve signed up for. While marvelling at Ok Cupid (seemingly designed for egomaniacs and oversharers) I decide a bland profile is best. Quinn’s advice is to ignore the dating cliché that asking lots of questions will win women over: “Volunteer information about yourself – it encourages people to open up.” I talk about my upbringing and, blow me, it works. I call Sean Brickell, a public speaking coach, and relay the day’s chat to him in the hope of reassurance. “Silences at the start of conversations are image killers,” he tells me.

Hunting for women is already preventing me from doing more enjoyable things; I have Chapman Pincher on my Kindle. It removes any thrill – a concern considering I have eight dates scheduled for the next two days.

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