Wednesday, July 01, 2009

Spilt Milk. May Spoil.

In elementary school, they laughed at me.

In high school, they wanted to be friends.

In university, they tried to get me into bed.

And now, boys just want to keep me there.

The gods are officially laughing at my expense.

Whereas some of my girlfriends are hopelessly longing for Prince Charming, I (of the "Don't Give a Shit" camp) am being inundated by men convinced they are mine.

One called me "effervescent," another tricked me to go on a date with him ("Did I say, 'film crew?' I meant, just me. By the way, I don't have a ride home. *wink, wink*"). Tonight, I decided I had to end my booty call arrangement (after fucking him in his car at 2 a.m.) because he just wasn't getting any better at, what Alex from A Clockwork Orange would call, the "old in-out." Foreplay consisted of bad puns and forcing it in. He also took direction poorly. Goddamn finance pricks.

Afterward, as I was getting dressed, I said half-jokingly, "Tell me something about economic policy."

He said people who talk about that stuff outside school are insecure. I told him I was a journalist and we like to have a shallow understanding of everything. He said I could just continue calling him, "daddy." (Altogether now: Eww.)

I knew then and there, it was sayonara forever. The only thing we have in common is our drive. Other than that, I just find him so utterly vapid. (Not to mention his constant need to be reassured that I'm not fucking other people. Which I'm not. But what's it to him? Likewise, it's not endearing to call my other suitors "losers." Buddy, they're not losers because they have a liberal arts degree; they're losers despite it.) Correction: I guess he's the best kind of fuck buddy since I can't imagine being with him longer than an hour at a time.

Casual sex has lost its novel edge. I take back that part, too.

At this point, the only thing that truly gets me off is being a television producer. It's not that I'm a workoholic. It's that I haven't found anyone I've been distinctly in awe of. The things that impress me most tend to vary from common household skills to obtuse esoteric knowledge. My girlfriends have accused me of being too picky in the same breath as being too easy.

The barista from the last post invited me to a small get-together last week. He and his friends were in their mid-twenties. Older, yes, but still young enough to giggle in a corner and, seeing that I was stoned and assuming I couldn't hear, went about making lewd comments about my figure and what they'd like to do to it. (Not to mention the exaggerated reaction I received after licking Cheeto dust from my fingers.)

It's not like I do anything in particular to attract attention. I'm just my normal, weirdo, self. The disconnect between my personality and sartorial selections regularly lands me in situations like the one last week, where I, donning a '50s sundress and plastic pearls, purchased some rolling papers and the customer behind me snickered, "What is a girl like you want with Zig Zags? You look so proper!" To which I grinned and said, "Trust me, I ain't so proper." Although, to be fair, there is a market for Chinese girls with blow-job lips. Hmm, am I in the wrong line of business?)

Maybe this glut of attention has to do with the recession producing a glut of depressed, lonely men. I told one guy to hurry up and get to the point after he called me under the pretense of a field assignment: "I don't like to use the phone for talky talk. What's the plan already?"

He later confessed that I made him nervous.

"Why?" I inquired, amused. "Don't take me so seriously."

He paused. "I take girls very seriously."

Cut to him trying to hold my hand a day later, me waving him away and ordering him to stay on his side of the sidewalk. What part of, "I don't want to be in a relationship," don't they understand?

It doesn't mean, "Try harder." Nor does it mean, "Convince me otherwise."

It means exactly what I say it does: I'm too satisfied to mess with a good thing and I'm too selfish to share it with someone else.