Don’t panic. Carry on as if your flub didn’t happen. The worst thing you could do would be to call attention to your crushing of your Special Snowflake’s special-ness. Don’t feel guilty. Guilty players have got no rhythm. Guilt will compel you to reflexively atone for sins real and imagined.
YOU: Seduce seduce seduce Heather seduce seduce seduce.
HER: You just called me Heather. My name’s not Heather.
YOU: Oh yeah, how ’bout that. Weird. One of my little nieces is named Heather. You must remind me of her somehow. Maybe the brattiness?
I have mixed up the names of plenty of girls. It happens a lot when I’m dating three or more girls concurrently. I will whip myself into a psychocathartic herbpulp later for the grossly misogynistic thing I’m about to say [yes, yes I will, I surely will], but you ladies all blend into one another when I’m sitting across from you at the bar sharing drinks and a story from your life. I can remember the details of how your asses meet the backs of your thighs, but your nonprofit jobs and travels to “that really amazing and beautiful” place somewhere in the world where a million other girls of your station in life went to for slutcation just sort of melds into a buzzing grrlnoize of boring mindrot. And so it is without malice of heart that I explain the rather prosaic reason for why I sometimes get you, Dasha, mixed up with you, Julie. If I were a beta who only managed to date one woman per year and consequently obsessed over that one woman, I might do better at remembering your names.
So take it as a positive sign that you have successfully captured the attention of an alpha male when he mixes up your name with that of his “niece”. You don’t want no fake alpha, ladies!
Similarly, I will sometimes forget your names during our courtship. I mean blanking out completely. Don’t take it personally, though. I’m a busy guy with lots of important thoughts in my head, like how to raise my status so that more pretty girls like you are drawn to my sexual dynamism. When I forget your name, I feel embarrassed, but I won’t ever let it show. Instead, I will either a) wait for someone else to address you and recoup your name that way, b) sneak a peek at your license, or c) say “I have a confession to make… [PAUSE WITHOUT SMILING]… I have forgotten your name.” Please note the past participle form of that last sentence; the passive voice helps the medicine go down.
This has never failed me. The one time I forgot a girl’s name and attempted to rescue the situation by “being myself”, I paid for it with no sex.