Recently I was lurking around a wine store resisting the temptation to purchase sparkling water and the fellow at the counter asked what I’d been up to that day. I replied I went to the Arts Picturehouse to watch Imperial War Museum archival movies.
He queried D’ya mean ‘films’?
I answered Yes, whatever you call them… they are screened early in the day so it is always an auditorium full of 85 year olds – plus me!
He asked Were they all hitting on you?
I rolled my eyes and said No! Nobody would dare!
He laughed and replied Mores the pity!
Of course I scurried away rather than following wherever that conversation might go, though I was in fact telling the truth. Until very recently it was a rare unto nonexistent experience for strangers to talk to me at all, let alone feel bold enough to try their luck.
That changed during the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks, when Ana Erotica gave me the essential tool kit to understand this form of communication. Though I do not use the skills, I have at least been vaguely aware that people are staring at me. Sometimes.
If I had finished the Ladychat lessons I would presumably be much closer to my goal of becoming a truly functional human, but Sarah moved away and I have nobody to practice with!
Imagine then my profound bewilderment, after accumulating more probable pickup attempts in ten days than I have experienced in an entire adult lifetime.
Three examples:
*One hot sticky day in Prague I was standing in the dairy section of the grocery store at the end of the Charles Bridge when the person next to me asked if I speak Czech. I replied in the negative but he inquired if I could help him figure out which container of cream to buy, and I obliged, both of us squinting at the indecipherable writing on the pots. He managed to tell me all about his career and siblings and was obviously trying to go somewhere with the chat but I was still innocently shaking the bottles to evaluate viscosity. When I realized he had a working class Scottish accent I was vaguely alerted to the fact that he might be interested in more than just cream. The rest of the conversation confirmed that fact, and I predictably had no ability to cope, defaulting to my normal Um, I need to…. go …. now….
*In a professional context I fell into conversation with a very proper lady who is also a lesbian with a capital L. Given that this is the UK, most work or academic or almost any events involve ingesting vast quantities of alcohol. This does not change my behavior (I misbehave just as much with or without) but it does bring out the shall-we-say-adventurous side of the English. I’ve been privy to more alarming confidences and scathing stories at alcohol-fuelled garden parties than I would be in the middle of the night in the clubs of San Francisco – honest. During this particular encounter I was acting like myself, which might be a wee bit scandalous by British standards, but everyone else was acting wildly unlike their normal daily selves. I might not have noticed anything but the person I was talking to emphasized her point by stroking my thigh. Now, I might be obtuse, but I am not stupid! What to do, what to do? I lack not just the etiquette but also the practice to smoothly extricate myself from such things. Just then a boy sitting next to me said to someone on his other side I can’t help it, I like the cock! I flung myself in his direction and said What a coincidence – me too! We have so much in common! Later I felt fairly dreadful about this prevarication, even though it seems more polite to be unavailable due to preference than it would be to say I’m not attracted to you. You might wonder – “but couldn’t you just claim that you are ‘taken’ to avoid the whole question?” The answer is: nobody seems to mind here. Especially not after the fifth drink.
*Wandering about trying to think of a major whiz bang tourist destination to dazzle my mother, I finally gave up and stepped inside a travel agency to ask for help. The fellow at the counter had only been talking to me for about a minute when he abandoned all pretense of selling anything on his list, though he did pick up the phone and call around several places tracking information for me. He also pried out various details about my life and loves. Why is it that boys who want a date always ask what kind of music you like? I have no idea, and always refuse to answer beyond a true but misleading John Denver, Bobby Goldsboro, Gordon Lightfoot response. This one had a canny strategy – he walked me through the list of all the shows touring the country at the moment. Very clever! He also had the great advantage of looking like a hooligan while sweetly rendering assistance. I simply adore tender lovin’ thugs – they are my favorite of all urban species. Before I skittered away this fellow had managed to solve my tourist problems, show me his vacation photos, talk about his divorce, invite me to a play, and, check it, give me his phone number.
The last is of course truly a milestone. I’ve married people without knowing their phone number, for goodness sake! Not to mention the fact that nobody has ever asked me out on a date before. Not even the people I’ve married!
From my perspective I was in no way encouraging the fellow, though Iainrecently informed me that Cleavage + no ring = available.
Maybe here – but that certainly isn’t true where I come from!
There is no moral to this story: I am, simply, baffled. Why me, why now? If this is the consequence of my research projects, could I possibly resign?