I spend a lot of time talking about my emotional distance from women. It gets lost in the shuffle that I can be a decent guy.
This one's about Paula. Paula was a relationship that emerged from talking in a professional environment. Paula was married. Paula and I confided in each other a lot. Truth be told, she is the woman who knows, by far, the most about me.
Here's the kicker. Paula's husband was dying. A slow death, years, that had paralyzed him. She was a workaholic and two of her sons were disabled teenagers. If anyone in the world ever need someone else to be emotionally open to her, it was Paula.
In many ways, Paula was my ideal partner. Why? Because I never had to worry about the her wanting to escalate the relationship. Even if her husband died, I would have lots of warning to get the fuck out before I'd be on the hook for marrying her or else.
One of my shittier qualities is that my willingness to be open with someone largely hinges on how likely I am to pay a price for that openness. If you're never gonna expect a wedding ring from me, I can be the most open man on earth with you. That's the deal Paula got.
Paula is also the rare case of a relationship that took a long time to turn sexual. I;d flirt with her here and there because I knew she enjoyed being noticed. I have no doubt that with her home life what it was, it was nice to just be dumb and cute for a little bit.
In retrospect, I think Paula escalated things in a more sexual direction. I remember the one day, after she had done a presentation at a morning meeting and everybody left (Paula was a minor poobah, I was a young shithead in the organizational chart) we were doing our usual "everybody's gone, let's talk". She was wearing a frilly green skirt that, to be honest, didn't come particularly far below her ass cheeks. But, she was one of those tall, skinny chicks that could pull that off. She was leggy and generally liked to show it.
I remember cracking wise about the skirt and telling her she looked especially cute. She laughed and seemed a little open. One of my great gifts, at my older age, is knowing when I have an opening. I stood behind her and touched the hem of her skirt. She smiled and demurred a bit. So, I ran my knuckle against the outside of her thigh. She pushed her butt back into my crotch.
We locked the doors to the meeting room and went into the adjoining storage room. All I did was pull down my pants and take of her panties. Gross, Hollywood style clothes-still-on sex. On a dirty metal table doggy-style.
The sex was like that. Being skinny, Paula was never my type, physically. But, she was very confident. A little nerdy (that always helps). And of course there was the personal bond.
And that's how our relationship worked for the next couple years. She was my work wife, emotionally. We didn't even have sex that often, but when we did it was intense. Not great sex in itself, but it's hard to not have that intensity when she has all this other shit going on.
Eventually things ended because I had to move on professionally. We kept somewhat in touch. Her husband did pass a year later. You never want to be thankful for someone dying, but for Paula's sake I was glad. I'm generally a "fight the dying of the light" kinda guy, but this was just hopeless and drawn out and emotionally exhausting.
A couple years ago we got to talking a bit. Paula told me that she never would have made it through that period without me. You don't think you could be proud of yourself for screwing another guy's wife. But, life is strange. Somewhere in there is probably a screenplay for a mediocre indie film.
I guess, if nothing else, at least for the one woman in my life who absolutely needed me to be there for her I somehow managed to be.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
The basics: how women approach guys
One thing I've noticed on the internet in open discussions about sex is that guys are roundly paralyzed by the notion that they do all the approach, they assume all the risk and then women just cherry-pick the men they choose to date.
That's not true at all. Women approach men. They just do it their way.
When a woman approaches you, she rarely goes the entire distance and outright says, "Hi." She will place herself in physical proximity to you and then sort of look around at anyone but you. Depending on her determination level and self-esteem, you have somewhere between a minute and five minutes to respond. If you like her, take the under and act sooner.
To some extent, the woman's approach of a man preserves the basic pretense that we all know, where the man must hit on the woman first. But, if a woman likes you enough, she will essentially concoct a scenario where only a downright moron (or a guy) could miss the signal to move in.
When I'm out at a club, I tend to go solo. I know a lot of guys would freak at this idea. But, for me it works. From experience, I've found that women have a much easier time approaching me if there isn't a herd of jackoffs drunkenly hooting around me.
What I like to do, especially if I'm not seeing anything that compels me to go approach a woman, is to move toward the fringe of the crowd and observe dispassionately. You don't want to get so far from the crowd that you cease to be a part of it -- that renders you unapproachable. Women do no easily separate from the larger herd.
In my favorite club, my favorite spot is a rail on the second floor that overlooks the main dance floor. I try to find a spot where there's some space around me, not always easy on the normally busy nights. The girls that like me will start filtering past and will stop along the rail in the open space left for them.
If the rail is gone, I also like seats in less occupied table areas of the bar. You'll find women take a similar action, there they'll sit down at the next table. The only downside to sitting at a table is that women seem more compelled to open me at a table, especially if they decided to sit down directly at my table.
The only women that open me aggressively are the ones that are a bit below my league. It's a simple fact of nature: an aggressive approach is often an attempt to overcome the status of the person you're hitting on. If a strange woman opens you with "Why are you sitting by yourself?" she's pretty much admitting she's trying to make the jump from AA to the majors and is swinging for a home run on the first pitch.
If a woman waits and waits and waits and then opens you with a "Hi" it means she insanely digs you and is probably well within your league. Truth is, it means she's seen you there before and she's been thinking about you ever since.
For most women, there is not open to their approach. They orbit in the hope that you'll get the idea and open them. If she really likes you, she practically draws you a fucking diagram.
As guys, we tend to miss these signals. We're pretty dense when you get right down to it. And even when we're not dense, we're scared or drunk or just tired or shocked that anyone would approach us.
The one thing you have to understand is that for most women, a full approach is an affront to feminine dignity. Guys open girls. That's how the game is played.
But, if you know how to watch them, women will signal you the closest approach. They try to make it as easy as possible for us without sacrificing their sense of feminine dignity. The tough part, of course, is that guys aren't very attuned.
Just remember the simple facts of women: they're not gonna take a chance of being hit on by a freak they despise. If they're moving closer to you and orbiting there, they want you to open them.
Go forth with this new knowledge. Conquer some women. Maybe one of them will make you happy.
That's not true at all. Women approach men. They just do it their way.
When a woman approaches you, she rarely goes the entire distance and outright says, "Hi." She will place herself in physical proximity to you and then sort of look around at anyone but you. Depending on her determination level and self-esteem, you have somewhere between a minute and five minutes to respond. If you like her, take the under and act sooner.
To some extent, the woman's approach of a man preserves the basic pretense that we all know, where the man must hit on the woman first. But, if a woman likes you enough, she will essentially concoct a scenario where only a downright moron (or a guy) could miss the signal to move in.
When I'm out at a club, I tend to go solo. I know a lot of guys would freak at this idea. But, for me it works. From experience, I've found that women have a much easier time approaching me if there isn't a herd of jackoffs drunkenly hooting around me.
What I like to do, especially if I'm not seeing anything that compels me to go approach a woman, is to move toward the fringe of the crowd and observe dispassionately. You don't want to get so far from the crowd that you cease to be a part of it -- that renders you unapproachable. Women do no easily separate from the larger herd.
In my favorite club, my favorite spot is a rail on the second floor that overlooks the main dance floor. I try to find a spot where there's some space around me, not always easy on the normally busy nights. The girls that like me will start filtering past and will stop along the rail in the open space left for them.
If the rail is gone, I also like seats in less occupied table areas of the bar. You'll find women take a similar action, there they'll sit down at the next table. The only downside to sitting at a table is that women seem more compelled to open me at a table, especially if they decided to sit down directly at my table.
The only women that open me aggressively are the ones that are a bit below my league. It's a simple fact of nature: an aggressive approach is often an attempt to overcome the status of the person you're hitting on. If a strange woman opens you with "Why are you sitting by yourself?" she's pretty much admitting she's trying to make the jump from AA to the majors and is swinging for a home run on the first pitch.
If a woman waits and waits and waits and then opens you with a "Hi" it means she insanely digs you and is probably well within your league. Truth is, it means she's seen you there before and she's been thinking about you ever since.
For most women, there is not open to their approach. They orbit in the hope that you'll get the idea and open them. If she really likes you, she practically draws you a fucking diagram.
As guys, we tend to miss these signals. We're pretty dense when you get right down to it. And even when we're not dense, we're scared or drunk or just tired or shocked that anyone would approach us.
The one thing you have to understand is that for most women, a full approach is an affront to feminine dignity. Guys open girls. That's how the game is played.
But, if you know how to watch them, women will signal you the closest approach. They try to make it as easy as possible for us without sacrificing their sense of feminine dignity. The tough part, of course, is that guys aren't very attuned.
Just remember the simple facts of women: they're not gonna take a chance of being hit on by a freak they despise. If they're moving closer to you and orbiting there, they want you to open them.
Go forth with this new knowledge. Conquer some women. Maybe one of them will make you happy.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Why so aloof? There's no such thing as casual sex
I don't have a starting point for this one. This story comes from a couple weeks during my grand tour of Europe. There was a woman I met, a couple years older than me, in Prague. Blond, Germanic. Annelise had a kind of chiseled face, in an attractive way. Hard to explain.
The tacit agreement anytime you sleep with a traveler the night you met him is that it is casual. Not, realistically, I know better than this. If a woman is near a guy, she wants a relationship. If she says it's casual and non-committal, she's lying.
Women think time spent with a man will eventually overcome all obstacles. I think this is one of the reason my relationships with women trouble me. I tend to have to have short sexual relationships. And it's hard to feel good about myself knowing that almost every woman I ever fucked was lying to me, hoping that the magic would kick in and I'd fall madly in love.
As to Annelise . . . the relationship was sex. It wasn't great sex, because she liked very dominant, rough, man-on-top stuff. Not my forte, to tell the truth. We usually did it twice in a session. Strangely, I got to get my first orgasm my way, and then the second turn was her way.
Two nights before I was set to leave Prague, Annelise asked me this question: "Do you think I'm the kind of girl you could ever see yourself having kids with?"
I think this is the single most devastating question a woman has ever asked me.
There's a lot of vulnerability in that question.
One of the things I loved with women in Prague is that on the surface there is a ridiculous confidence, a brazen sexuality and an almost masculine aloofness. But, once you have them cornered, all you had to do was turn on the charm and they melted like a fucking ice cube on hundred degree day. Tell a couple jokes, press a couple of her buttons and away you go -- shit a woman in New York would treat you like a retard for trying.
The further east you get in Europe, the more brutish the men become. I know that's a stereotype, but some stereotypes have been earned the hard way. Prague is the first place you realize that western European gender equity gives way to something entirely alien to Americans.
What makes that funny is that as an American guy, you spend your whole life turning on the charm just to get one fucking smile from one pretty girl. Those Eastern European girls act like they've never had a boy act cute around them before. It's astonishing how fast they break down when a boy turns it on. I'm telling ya, you could be Wilt Chamberlain in the old Warsaw Pact countries just by showing up on dates with a daisy you plucked from the front yard. As best I can tell, those women have never seen charm before. It's kinda tragic and makes you think about fucked up for how long those countries had to be for people to have gotten to that point.
That question, "Do you think I'm the kind of girl you could ever see yourself having kids with?" is the core question between men and women. But, no one ever actually says it! To ask the question borders upon naive. To ask the question of a foreigner you're casually fucking around with? Is that even possible?
Needless to say, that's where it ended. Cordial enough. But, after a half hour in the room with that question, I left. I didn't see her again before I left Prague. How could I?
Annelise's question itself is innocent to the point of being painful. It makes her look like an ingenue. It makes me look evil. But, the truth is it's the question that hangs over every sexual relationship we have.
I know the truth about women. Casual sex is a myth. More horrifying, though, is the fact that women will agree to it on the slenderest of hopes.
Every woman thinks she's special. She's the one. This is going to work out. That giant rush of endorphins is going to overwhelm him. He's gonna feel it and fall in love with me. And if that doesn't work, she'll fuck him so hard he'll never want another woman again. And if that doesn't work, she'll take such good care of him that he'll never need another woman in his life.
I know how women see me.
I'm physically imposing. If I'm with a woman, people will ask her if I'm her bodyguard. If I'm by myself at a bar, people assume I'm a bouncer. I give off a serious don't-fuck-with-me vibe. Actually, it's more fuck-with-me-and-you-die.
When a girl sees me turn on the charm, it feeds into one of the great female fantasies. Women fear physical men. They know the cost of being wrong about us. When the charm comes on and she lets go of all those fears, a woman's mind rushes the opposite direction. The impact of emotions is defined by the height of the tensions.
I think about this woman, this Annelise from Prague. I think about her because she encompasses everything I hate about sex with women. I don't fall in love. The relationships I do manage are short and sexual. And I feel immense responsibility for the harm these relationships cause. I hate how it makes me feel.
"Do you think I'm the kind of girl you could ever see yourself having kids with?"
Remember this question. It's the question almost every woman harbors when she is with you.
The tacit agreement anytime you sleep with a traveler the night you met him is that it is casual. Not, realistically, I know better than this. If a woman is near a guy, she wants a relationship. If she says it's casual and non-committal, she's lying.
Women think time spent with a man will eventually overcome all obstacles. I think this is one of the reason my relationships with women trouble me. I tend to have to have short sexual relationships. And it's hard to feel good about myself knowing that almost every woman I ever fucked was lying to me, hoping that the magic would kick in and I'd fall madly in love.
As to Annelise . . . the relationship was sex. It wasn't great sex, because she liked very dominant, rough, man-on-top stuff. Not my forte, to tell the truth. We usually did it twice in a session. Strangely, I got to get my first orgasm my way, and then the second turn was her way.
Two nights before I was set to leave Prague, Annelise asked me this question: "Do you think I'm the kind of girl you could ever see yourself having kids with?"
I think this is the single most devastating question a woman has ever asked me.
There's a lot of vulnerability in that question.
One of the things I loved with women in Prague is that on the surface there is a ridiculous confidence, a brazen sexuality and an almost masculine aloofness. But, once you have them cornered, all you had to do was turn on the charm and they melted like a fucking ice cube on hundred degree day. Tell a couple jokes, press a couple of her buttons and away you go -- shit a woman in New York would treat you like a retard for trying.
The further east you get in Europe, the more brutish the men become. I know that's a stereotype, but some stereotypes have been earned the hard way. Prague is the first place you realize that western European gender equity gives way to something entirely alien to Americans.
What makes that funny is that as an American guy, you spend your whole life turning on the charm just to get one fucking smile from one pretty girl. Those Eastern European girls act like they've never had a boy act cute around them before. It's astonishing how fast they break down when a boy turns it on. I'm telling ya, you could be Wilt Chamberlain in the old Warsaw Pact countries just by showing up on dates with a daisy you plucked from the front yard. As best I can tell, those women have never seen charm before. It's kinda tragic and makes you think about fucked up for how long those countries had to be for people to have gotten to that point.
That question, "Do you think I'm the kind of girl you could ever see yourself having kids with?" is the core question between men and women. But, no one ever actually says it! To ask the question borders upon naive. To ask the question of a foreigner you're casually fucking around with? Is that even possible?
Needless to say, that's where it ended. Cordial enough. But, after a half hour in the room with that question, I left. I didn't see her again before I left Prague. How could I?
Annelise's question itself is innocent to the point of being painful. It makes her look like an ingenue. It makes me look evil. But, the truth is it's the question that hangs over every sexual relationship we have.
I know the truth about women. Casual sex is a myth. More horrifying, though, is the fact that women will agree to it on the slenderest of hopes.
Every woman thinks she's special. She's the one. This is going to work out. That giant rush of endorphins is going to overwhelm him. He's gonna feel it and fall in love with me. And if that doesn't work, she'll fuck him so hard he'll never want another woman again. And if that doesn't work, she'll take such good care of him that he'll never need another woman in his life.
I know how women see me.
I'm physically imposing. If I'm with a woman, people will ask her if I'm her bodyguard. If I'm by myself at a bar, people assume I'm a bouncer. I give off a serious don't-fuck-with-me vibe. Actually, it's more fuck-with-me-and-you-die.
When a girl sees me turn on the charm, it feeds into one of the great female fantasies. Women fear physical men. They know the cost of being wrong about us. When the charm comes on and she lets go of all those fears, a woman's mind rushes the opposite direction. The impact of emotions is defined by the height of the tensions.
I think about this woman, this Annelise from Prague. I think about her because she encompasses everything I hate about sex with women. I don't fall in love. The relationships I do manage are short and sexual. And I feel immense responsibility for the harm these relationships cause. I hate how it makes me feel.
"Do you think I'm the kind of girl you could ever see yourself having kids with?"
Remember this question. It's the question almost every woman harbors when she is with you.
Friday, November 25, 2011
The first time I knew I liked girls
Dana Delaney. On China Beach. It was a TV show that was on in the late 80s. I know, strange, huh? My first sexual reaction to a woman was a girl in loose-fitting olive drab military clothes.
Then again, Dana Delaney is a redhead. So, really the sexiest part of her was constantly exposed. To this day I have zero judgment with regards to redheads. A redhead has to be hideous before I can actually look at her and not be turned on.
Certainly there are worse female role models for young boys than one of the better written TV females of all time. Man, why can't I find a cute redheaded nurse? Dammit.
I saw her on an episode of Desperate Housewives a while back. Nostalgic, to say the least. You never forgot the first girl who made you feel different.
Then again, Dana Delaney is a redhead. So, really the sexiest part of her was constantly exposed. To this day I have zero judgment with regards to redheads. A redhead has to be hideous before I can actually look at her and not be turned on.
Certainly there are worse female role models for young boys than one of the better written TV females of all time. Man, why can't I find a cute redheaded nurse? Dammit.
I saw her on an episode of Desperate Housewives a while back. Nostalgic, to say the least. You never forgot the first girl who made you feel different.
Why so aloof? I'm just not attracted to you
This story is for a certain set of women. The set of women who are convinced they can look at any guy and win him over.
The subject of this story is Olivia. Name changed to protect the innocent, but I'm tired of using single letters. Olivia worked the front desk at my first paid internship. She sat in a both with two old ladies who we needed every time we had to fax anything or to make copies. They also answered the non-direct line calls.
Olivia was the type of girl who dressed just to the tasteful side of too sexy. Short skirts that didn't show anything when she bent over. Tight shirts that didn't pinch. Make-up that let you know she was on the make without appearing slutty.
Olivia had a nice figure. Others thought she had a great figure. I thought she was skinny and showed off more because she knew how to wear heels. She was a little rough in the face, but, again, other people thought she was pretty.
As the paid intern in the downstairs office, I was the default youngest male in the building. This is in a college town where women already outnumbered mean almost 3-to-1. And we had a lot of gay guys and awkward foreigners (Arab and African kids who still blushed when they saw an ankle, no kidding). So, if you were an eligible straight guy, the odds were in your favor.
The first time I realized Olivia liked me was when I went out front and she was leaning on the front window of the narrow front hallway, talking with the two old ladies. To describe the pose, politely, it looked like she was presenting, in the Animal Planet sense of the term. The old ladies started laughing their asses off. Olivia didn't get it until I scooted by. She then sort of bolted to the other side of the window and apologized, blushing. And the old ladies laughed harder.
Olivia was never my type. She gossiped with old ladies. She smoked like a fuckin chimney. Little too skinny. Just not my type.
After a while, Olivia figured out my schedule and started plopping herself on the bench out front around the time I took lunch. She'd sit there smoking and trying to slyly make eye contact, but not too much eye contact. Every single day. I swear it didn't rain that entire internship.
I remember one day a girl I knew, Sonya, came in to apply for a job in the upstairs office. Sonya is the type of girl no woman wants to see talking to the guy she likes. Sonya is tall, exotic-looking, mixed Asian and black. She's very demur (not a trait I particularly like).
Oh, and Sonya and I were good friends. Sonya liked me because I was the only person who didn't act inconvenienced when she couldn't get a baby sitter and had to bring her son to group work in the evenings. Sonya basically spent all of college trying to orbit me in the hope of it turning into a serious relationship. It got to the point where if I had a long day and I saw Sonya in public before she saw me, I'd try to get the fuck out of there before she waved me down.
Worse, Sonya was always very obvious. Lots of smiling, lots of blushing, lots of quick eye contact that then turned submissive.
Sonya is a subject for another article, don't worry.
Sonya and I had a long conversation, probably 15 minutes, about what she was applying for and why and good luck and oh you work here et cetera.
When Sonya disappeared I happened to notice Olivia. She was locked on Sonya walking up the steps and red-faced as could be. The look on her face was one I know well -- it's a look of self-hatred women get when they realize they've fallen for guy who is not gonna work out for them.
The next day, during her bench time, I missed Olivia going out, but saw her coming back. She was dressed to the nines. She locked eyes on me from far away and kept them on me. She waved. I waved and looked away. She stood up, threw her cigarette to the ground and stomped it hard. She then walked away, ahead of me, stomping her feet hard and moving fast. When I went past the front window in the office the old ladies shut up (which they never did) and Olivia sat there looking like she was going to throw up.
After that, she stopped doing the bench thing and did everything in her power to ignore me unless she was the only person at the front window. The old ladies made a point of giving me dirty looks and treating me like shit after that. They didn't like their vicarious excitement ruined, either.
My internship lasted a month longer. They were going to offer me some permanent part-time stuff. But, as you can imagine, being glared at every day didn't seem like a winning plan. Plus, I kinda wanted the last couple weeks of my summer to myself.
Olivia's one of the girls who really bothered me.
There was never any spark there. We didn't talk about anything besides "What's the fax number for so-and-so?"
Yes, I get that in a building full of old people, it would be nice if the only young person of the opposite sex showed some interest in you. Summer in a college town sucks big time -- I know, I did three summer sessions! But, he's not exactly obliged to hit on you just because you think the math's on your side.
And, yes, I get that other people wanted to fuck her brains out. I listened to one of the single male editors in his 30s go on endlessly about that exact subject. I didn't find her peculiarly attractive, especially with all the smoking thrown in.
I felt bad because it was obvious that she liked me. And it was clear she had some type of stake in proving herself to the gabby old ladies who worked the front window. It wasn't just that a guy didn't go for her. It's that it was a marked and humiliating defeat in front of the only two people she really talked to all day.
Hallmark doesn't make a card for, "I never found you attractive, but I'm sorry you feel bad about it now that you know." Sorry, Olivia.
The subject of this story is Olivia. Name changed to protect the innocent, but I'm tired of using single letters. Olivia worked the front desk at my first paid internship. She sat in a both with two old ladies who we needed every time we had to fax anything or to make copies. They also answered the non-direct line calls.
Olivia was the type of girl who dressed just to the tasteful side of too sexy. Short skirts that didn't show anything when she bent over. Tight shirts that didn't pinch. Make-up that let you know she was on the make without appearing slutty.
Olivia had a nice figure. Others thought she had a great figure. I thought she was skinny and showed off more because she knew how to wear heels. She was a little rough in the face, but, again, other people thought she was pretty.
As the paid intern in the downstairs office, I was the default youngest male in the building. This is in a college town where women already outnumbered mean almost 3-to-1. And we had a lot of gay guys and awkward foreigners (Arab and African kids who still blushed when they saw an ankle, no kidding). So, if you were an eligible straight guy, the odds were in your favor.
The first time I realized Olivia liked me was when I went out front and she was leaning on the front window of the narrow front hallway, talking with the two old ladies. To describe the pose, politely, it looked like she was presenting, in the Animal Planet sense of the term. The old ladies started laughing their asses off. Olivia didn't get it until I scooted by. She then sort of bolted to the other side of the window and apologized, blushing. And the old ladies laughed harder.
Olivia was never my type. She gossiped with old ladies. She smoked like a fuckin chimney. Little too skinny. Just not my type.
After a while, Olivia figured out my schedule and started plopping herself on the bench out front around the time I took lunch. She'd sit there smoking and trying to slyly make eye contact, but not too much eye contact. Every single day. I swear it didn't rain that entire internship.
I remember one day a girl I knew, Sonya, came in to apply for a job in the upstairs office. Sonya is the type of girl no woman wants to see talking to the guy she likes. Sonya is tall, exotic-looking, mixed Asian and black. She's very demur (not a trait I particularly like).
Oh, and Sonya and I were good friends. Sonya liked me because I was the only person who didn't act inconvenienced when she couldn't get a baby sitter and had to bring her son to group work in the evenings. Sonya basically spent all of college trying to orbit me in the hope of it turning into a serious relationship. It got to the point where if I had a long day and I saw Sonya in public before she saw me, I'd try to get the fuck out of there before she waved me down.
Worse, Sonya was always very obvious. Lots of smiling, lots of blushing, lots of quick eye contact that then turned submissive.
Sonya is a subject for another article, don't worry.
Sonya and I had a long conversation, probably 15 minutes, about what she was applying for and why and good luck and oh you work here et cetera.
When Sonya disappeared I happened to notice Olivia. She was locked on Sonya walking up the steps and red-faced as could be. The look on her face was one I know well -- it's a look of self-hatred women get when they realize they've fallen for guy who is not gonna work out for them.
The next day, during her bench time, I missed Olivia going out, but saw her coming back. She was dressed to the nines. She locked eyes on me from far away and kept them on me. She waved. I waved and looked away. She stood up, threw her cigarette to the ground and stomped it hard. She then walked away, ahead of me, stomping her feet hard and moving fast. When I went past the front window in the office the old ladies shut up (which they never did) and Olivia sat there looking like she was going to throw up.
After that, she stopped doing the bench thing and did everything in her power to ignore me unless she was the only person at the front window. The old ladies made a point of giving me dirty looks and treating me like shit after that. They didn't like their vicarious excitement ruined, either.
My internship lasted a month longer. They were going to offer me some permanent part-time stuff. But, as you can imagine, being glared at every day didn't seem like a winning plan. Plus, I kinda wanted the last couple weeks of my summer to myself.
Olivia's one of the girls who really bothered me.
There was never any spark there. We didn't talk about anything besides "What's the fax number for so-and-so?"
Yes, I get that in a building full of old people, it would be nice if the only young person of the opposite sex showed some interest in you. Summer in a college town sucks big time -- I know, I did three summer sessions! But, he's not exactly obliged to hit on you just because you think the math's on your side.
And, yes, I get that other people wanted to fuck her brains out. I listened to one of the single male editors in his 30s go on endlessly about that exact subject. I didn't find her peculiarly attractive, especially with all the smoking thrown in.
I felt bad because it was obvious that she liked me. And it was clear she had some type of stake in proving herself to the gabby old ladies who worked the front window. It wasn't just that a guy didn't go for her. It's that it was a marked and humiliating defeat in front of the only two people she really talked to all day.
Hallmark doesn't make a card for, "I never found you attractive, but I'm sorry you feel bad about it now that you know." Sorry, Olivia.
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