Saturday, April 02, 2005

I've got to start thinking of punchier titles

Let me preface this story with, I'm in denial or a moron (don't answer that) or a reincarnated nun or something, because if I'd lived in caveman days, Ugg could have hit me over the head with a club and dragged me back to his cave, and I'd have been all 'Yeah, sure! I'd love to see your CD collection', and meant it.

Wow, that was a long, barely punctuated sentence.

Point being, I've never been able to recognise anyone's sexual interest in me.

When I was younger and gorgeous-er, and was (according to reports) a total babe, if a man spoke to me, I thought he were being friendly. Platonically friendly. We're talking hormonally amped young men too, not the geriatrics who are my peers these days. Do young men with perpetual hard-ons even know what 'platonic' means? Not according to my then boyfriend, a young and hormonally amped man himself. Being quite well versed in manly hot-for-the-hot-chick behaviour, and totally getting what was going on, he was always too busy being highly amused by my obliviousnessinithity(sp?) to be jealous.

So anyway, I was training yesterday, which means I was hot, sweaty, red faced, gasping for breath. It's hardly my best look, so I don't understand the sexual interest of four (four!) men that was obvious enough to be detected by my crappy and barely functional Sexual Interest Detection System™.

Sidebar: Punctuation? What is this thing called 'punctuation'?

Number One was all 'So you work at a gym that's a million miles away from where I live? Sounds convenient, I'll see you there sometime. Might even join up...'

I was chatting to Number Two and the gooey look in his eyes suggested he was either on drugs, or smitten with me and my legs. There were no obvious trackmarks on his arms, so....

I worked on Number Three and when I asked him to roll over onto his back, he refused. I missed this one until later in the day, when whole Why A Man Might Not Want Roll Onto His Back phenomena was explained to me in greater detail.

Finally, Number Four stalked me in the supermarket until he eventually approached me and asked me out for a beer.

Sidebar: a beer? ::blink:: Not that there's anything wrong with beer, but I'd have thought my post work out appearance was more suggestive of a smoothie or a wheatgrass shot than a beer.

Seriously, do I smell like a hormone or something?

2005-2007© aibee