Recently as I marched through a London club some strange boy commented I like your dress!
I frowned down at my outfit; I was wearing my boring basic black skirt and shirt, not a dress, but I remembered my manners and resisted the urge to correct the fellow. Instead I said an emphatic thank you and continued on my way.
When I fetched up with friends I described the incident, since it is so rare for strangers to talk to me at all, and Susan suggested that it wasn’t actually my clothing that was being admired.
Iain said You would just pick any compliment apart, wouldn’t you?
When they are not accurate, yes.
Jeffrey started to protest over the honor of my (as Mark Mitchell would say) legendary milky white bosom because someone with lesser attributes was fronting more exposed cleavage. I put my fingers in my ears and hummed as he delivered a soliloquoy on the subject until he laughed and said I’m sorry, was that inappropriate?
From there talk ranged but ended at a predictable juncture where I said In the states nobody hits on me!
Jeffrey said That is a lie!
Integrity imperiled, but believing myself to be truthful as I have not noticed such things, I said Prove it! Nobody has in front of you!
He rolled his eyes and replied True, nobody has in my presence, but I have hit on you several times!
My mouth dropped open in shock.
I have been conducting extensive research into the subject of flirting for a little over a year. When I explained this to Marisa she wanted to know why, and the reason is simple – and illustrated by Jeffrey’s comment – I was getting in more trouble lacking basic skills than I would if I understood what the heck was happening around me.
I figured I would have proof of the success of the scheme if a stranger hit on me. That benchmark proved consistently out of reach, mostly because I am obtuse and stern, though I did have a few rather alarming interactions with people, that Ana Erotica patiently interpreted after the fact.
She told me that Jeffrey had hit on me, but I didn’t believe her – the only odd thing I noticed about our friendship is the fact that he is solicitous of me, unlike anyone else I’ve ever hung out with. And that he found my research project annoying.
Once I understood the complexity of the endeavor I decided to abandon the project. Why?
Because the various practical aspects of flirting as described by those questioned are, fundamentally, outside the scope of my skills. It is literally impossible for me to turn on the charm to impress anyone – I am friendlier than I’ve ever been in my life, but I remain unconcerned about what other people think of me.
M made the following observations:
You’re a stone cold fox with tunnel vision. People flirt with you all the time, you just don’t notice. I’m going to get one of those clicker things and spend an entire day with you making a tally! Grown men shout at you in the street that you’re beautiful!
I replied That is just crazy street behavior!
She sighed in exasperation. No, that is crazy street flirting! This is a really small toolset. I bet in a year you’ll have the skills and when you look back at the journal entries you won’t even understand what you were talking about.
Her prediction may come true, but that does not mean I will choose to exercise the skills, if acquired. Why? Because my recondite adventures reminded me that I’m a love magnet, even when I am scrupulously unavailable. In fact, there may be a correlation between the two facts. I have a few adorable friends who deserve and want to be loved without finding what they are seeking, while my overly committed adult life features a need to routinely fend off declarations of true love.
I asked Gordon why this is true and he gave me a laundry list of my desirable attributes. Followed up by a pointed order to accept the compliments. I asked – but why love? Why not something light and superficial?
He replied Well… you’ve got gravitas Bee. Sorry.
This week I was organizing my notes on the subject and realized that one of the people who hit on me last year was not, in fact, a friend – but instead a stranger. Believing otherwise was just an optical illusion.
That leads to the question: What is my definition of stranger given that I travel, perform, and meet hundreds of new people every year?
Tricky to explain; anyone who turns up at one of my shows or uses one of my web sites is automatically not a stranger. Anyone introduced to me by friends, anyone who lives in a series of houses in Portland and San Francisco, anyone who hangs out at the Bus Stop, writers represented by my agent or published by the same companies, a certain kind of expat, most who dwell in a couple of west coast subcultures, and most mad scientists automatically go in the category loosely understood as known. This is distinct from an idea of friendship, as I also know my enemies.
A stranger would then be someone who knows nothing about me except what they see, and still tries to talk to me. If you exclude taxi drivers, people asking for directions, and bartenders (and Ana definitely wouldn’t let me get away with that legerdemain), I know for a fact that only three strangers talked to me last year. Those were all awkward chats on airplanes.
If the hypothesis that the person in question was in fact a stranger is valid, my odd statistics have been completely flawed, though I wasn’t really paying sufficient attention at the time. Now I am normal! Or something.
The whole thing was both amusing and rewarding, though I still have no desire to talk to strangers.
