I Was an Attractive Woman for an Hour

I was standing around with Zeets at one of my favorite clubs when I was approached by a girl who immediately chatted me up.  I thought, here was an opportunity that doesn’t fall in my lap every day.

Unfortunately, the girl who opened me was fat and pig-faced.  And slightly inebriated.  Considering her beastliness, I was intrigued in a sort of scientifically curious way by her assertive demeanor and sky high self-confidence, so I didn’t blow her off right away.  A minute later her friends had joined us.  Zeets had engaged one of the friends in conversation and judging by his positive interest in her it looked like he would need my wingman duties to prevent grumpy cockblocking by the fat one.  This was my night to fall on the ammo dump.

Guys will understand what I’m about to describe.  It’s funny what happens when you are the object of an ugly woman’s affection.  You get uncomfortable at first, then annoyed that this girl presumes to think she is in your league, and finally cruel, just to be rid of her.  Now try keeping an ugly girl entertained for an hour.  It will test your patience to the limits and expose you to the risk of her thinking she has a chance with you.

So for an hour I experienced what it must feel like to be a hot girl getting hit on by a persistent beta with zero game.  And I reacted in exactly the same way a hot girl would react to a loser hitting on her.  Or like a young guy might respond to a cougar stroking his chest.

First came the questions.  She wanted to know so much about me.  I felt like I was being interrogated, so I evaded and gave her smart-alecky answers.

So what to you do?
I kick cats for fun and profit. 

She seemed to enjoy that.  The cockier I got the more she pressed.  Bad move on my part.  I switched gears and started giving her vanilla one word answers.  This seemed to work and she changed the subject to music hoping to gain more traction.

I really love the band Pussy Surrenders to Red Army.  Ever heard of them?
Yeah, they’re OK.
OMG, did you see their show last week?
Uh, you know, I listen to Celine Dion exclusively now.

Despite my strenuous effort to avoid reciprocating the rapport she so desperately tried to manufacture with me, she soldiered on.  As we were talking she was facing me directly while my body was at a 90 degree angle to hers.  I looked around at the rest of the room in between glances back at her to sustain a conversation I normally wouldn’t have.  I was literally giving her the cold shoulder.  When the mind is not racing with lust it’s easy to be keenly aware of your body language.

Next came the unsolicited compliments.  My negative body language was apparently not enough to cool her jets.  It only invited her to redouble her efforts.

You have great hair. I love your hair!
Uh, thanks.
It’s so soft.  [out of the corner of my eye I saw her hand reach up to touch my hair.  I instinctively jerked my head backwards.]
I don’t wash it.  Natural grease keeps it soft.
You’re the cutest guy in here.  No, seriously!  [my annoyance was rising.]
No, I think that guy is cuter over there.  And he’s checking you out.  You should talk to him.

Finally, the stream of unwanted flattery was over.  Only to be replaced by her touching me.  Lots of touching.
The forearm at first.
Then the hands.
The chest.
She tried to stick her hand in my jeans back pocket.
ew, ew, ew.
Out of the blue she reached up and caressed my cheek.
ew infinity.
She leaned in aggressively.  I leaned away from her.  Lean in, lean away.  I’d fall over soon at this rate.  I tensed up and closed off my body.  She stepped in closer.  I stepped away.  Step in, step away.  We were moving across the room like a dance of repelling magnets.  I actively and conspicuously checked out other girls in front of her as she talked.

She moved in to whisper something in my ear.  I jumped sideways.  We were now talking to each other from six feet apart.  This was a tolerable amount of personal space for me.

I prayed Zeets would number close soon.  I kept trying to get his attention and pass a non-verbal cue to hurry this up but he was in deep rapport with his target.  The Krakon shambled up and put her arm around my waist.  Sweet Lincoln’s mullet, get a couple of drinks in a girl and mix with a dusty vagina that hasn’t seen cock in years and it’s like standing in front of a Chinese tank — you’ll eventually get steamrolled.

Hey, you know, you should really go talk to your friends.  It’s kinda rude to ignore them like this.

I lifted her arm off me and walked away through the crowd to sit on a couch on the other side of the room.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  Zeets was on his own.  I did my part.  If she went back to her friends and messed up his game, I washed my hands of any responsibility.

My freedom wouldn’t last.  No sooner had I caught the eye of an attractive girl and prepared to make a move on her, my tormentor returned and plopped down on the couch next to me.  She scooted nearer and rested her hand on my leg.  I pushed it off.  She stared at me blankly.  Then, release.  The message got through.  She stood up and walked back to her friends, not dejected, but more like a proud but mortally wounded warrior who was forced to surrender.

Everything I said to her, and every way my body responded to her, I’ve seen hot girls do to guys they weren’t remotely interested in.  For an hour, I was that hot girl.

Minimized eye contact and looked down at my drink a lot?  Yes.
Answered questions tersely?  Yes.
No body language mirroring?  Yes.
Repositioned myself to avoid incidental physical contact?  Yes.
Got skeeved out when physical contact ocurred?  Yes.
Got progressively nastier with my comments?  Yes.
Scanned room for a savior to rescue me?  Yes.

The next step on my path to enlightenment would be to bottle the attitude I have with unattractive girls and invoke it when I’m in the company of a woman who really turns me on.  This would elevate me to the stage of playerdom where I exert very little effort to have girls working hard to win me over.

All this unpleasantness would be unnecessary if fat and ugly chicks just followed my simple words of advice:

Know your place.

It’ll make life easier for you and for everyone around you.

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Movie Review in Poem

one trilogy later j. bourne still on the run
can’t figure out where he’s from
walks away from ten car crashes
with just a hollywood cut on his eyelashes
action intense, girls burning in their crotches
who doesn’t dig flawed good guys with kill notches?
matt damon getting a little pudgy in the face
but ladies love him how bout dem apples, ace
he’s rockin’ the CIA black ops guys in style
ps: best BJ lips in the biz on julia stiles
word of warning to those with vertigo
camera shaking make you dizzy avoid the front row.

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Window Stories

When I was a teenager, I kept in shape running along the boulevard-wide streets of my placid suburban neighborhood.  Unlike my runs around the city, I never had to look over my shoulder to make sure a car or bike messenger wouldn’t careen into me.   A car drove by once every half hour, tops.  There is nothing like running in such quietude that all you can hear is the slap of your feet on the asphalt and the chorus of late-August crickets rising from the manicured lawns.  IPods didn’t exist back then, but if they had I would’ve used them and been robbed of a cherished memory.

Running can be boring, especially to a teenager with a hyperactive mind fueled by supercharged hormones, so I had amused myself by pondering what was going on behind all the windows with their lights on.  Passing by my next-door neighbor the living room bay window glowed yellow through the curtains.  I wondered if this was the night they talked in hushed tones about divorce.  She was a horrible nagger and he always looked unhappy.  A block later I might see the bedroom light shine through the window in the house where the cute girl I had a huge crush on lived.  I was innocent back then so I imagined her writing in her diary about waiting impatiently for me to ask her out.  One late evening I caught a glimpse of her silhouette peering out from her window as I ran past.  I thrust out my chest and ran a little faster.

Now I entertain myself the same way when I run past urban apartments and condos.  The difference this time is in the density of windows.  So many more scenarios to dream up.  The suburbs hide secrets, but the city vibrates with them.

There’s a path I like to run, one that eventually takes me down a bridge and then over another bridge, where I pass by a lot of stately apartment buildings, their randomly distributed window lights flickering like cats’ eyes in the twilight, framing the stories of anonymous lives.  I mentally sketch out vignettes.  Here is a couple arguing about kitchen utensils… there is a guy blankly watching TV with his dog laying in his lap… and three floors up is a girl who starts her first job in two days just noticing the stain on her new skirt she’s modeling in front of the mirror.

Down the street more glimmering windows pop into view.  In one of them, maybe that one over to the right with the old silver-handled white refrigerator I can see through it, an ex is being slowly lowered onto her bed, unknown hands pulling up her shirt, a flash of skin followed by a moan.  She arches her neck and pulls up a leg.  Her nail polish color hasn’t changed.  For a second I wished the light would go out.  Another window and maybe I’ll see my silhouette girl.

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