I have been married since I was 23. (You do the math.) I have been off the market a long time. I have decided that I am a flirt retard. I don’t think I would recognize flirtation if it fucked me in the ass. IMPORTANT NOTE: If you would like to flirt with me, please don’t do that.
Awhile back, I had to take my car into get serviced at mom and pop car place. It took a pretty big chunk of time. Luckily I had company. The the guy who ran the office talked to me the whole time. It was really pleasant. He was an incredibly nice and engaging guy. I never discuss politics or religion in mixed company, but was shocked to learn he was pretty much a flaming liberal like moi. So, anyway, we got along famously. I left thinking “What a nice guy.”
Later I recounted this incident to the chuckleheads at a certain humor/political blog I shan’t mention…and was immediately informed that the guy was hitting on me. I protested! Oh, I protested! Vehemently! I think I still protest. But now I’m unsure.
Cut to months and months later. (A couple of weeks ago.) I went back and again had to sit for a long chunk o’ time while my car was serviced. Anyway, the same guy was there. And again we talked. And again it was extremely pleasant. Except this time, the subject du jour was sex. (Basically, it was Americans are prudey and fucked up about sex and nudity.) And I did not bring it up. I was perfectly willing to go down this road, but after awhile, I was like “Hmmmm. Maybe it’s time to switch subjects.” When he told me didn’t like Sports Illustrated swimsuit models because he did not enjoy the artifice, let’s just say my Spidey sense told me something was up. Maybe I’m just an insulated idiot, but it’s simply hard for me to fathom dudes not almost uniformly being very PRO-SI bikini models. I thought perhaps maybe it was a ploy to impress oh-so-feminist me. And when he started talking about having had a threesome (this was said to have been a less-than-satisfactory experience) I thought, “I am pouring cold water on this convo!” So I made him watch this on my iPad:
I figured if anything would cool things down, it was that. (Also, I just wanted to show it to him. Because I want to show it to everyone. Because I assume that everyone will find it as rivetingly horrifying and hilarious as I do.) He seemed amused…then–YOINK!–the convo was back on sex. So, yeah. I don’t know. There’s every chance this guy is just a nice guy who’s up for conversation about anything. Then again, maybe he thinks I’m a cutie. I will never know.
I’m starting to think I never have. It’s easy to pick up on visual cues. Like I know I will get checked out by dudes every time I leave the house. (Even heavily pregnant. Of course now it could be like “Hey, what’s that parade float doing here?!” Kicking ass and taking names, that’s what!) There’s a reason there are two blouses that always sit un-worn in my closet because they show off a little too much real estate in a certain chest-related area. Only time I wear them is when I have not done laundry. For realz. Some women enjoy showing off a little cleave. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. And every time I wear them, the eye-fuck action always goes up a notch, and my inner-monologue is as follows: “Shoulda done some fucking laundry…shoulda done some fucking laundry.”
Then again, because I’m so flirt-rusty, I think it’s entirely possible that I have taken perfectly innocent words or gestures and gone “OMG. TOTALLY. WANTS. ME.” Being an idiot on top of being a flirt retard does not make things easier. I think I shall just make sure I do the laundry and retire to a life of married spinsterhood. (Shut up, pedants! I know that spinsterhood and marriage are at odds. That’s the point.)