Creepy Revisited
I was walking into the metro station with my friend the Gym Rat. She's wearing shorts, a camisole thingie, with plenty of shoulder and back showing, and a fascinating array of necklaces and chokers of her own invention. Whenever we walk, she gets a lot of attention. However, as she is usually gazing fixedly through the fabric of space-time itself, focusing on some event that may occur in the past, future, or possibly along a dimension like time but somehow not, she doesn't see the eyeballs rolling back and forth over her merely physical frame.
This evening, I tapped my Smart Card against the gate, only to have it tell me to "try again". I did so, over and over. Meanwhile, my Gym Rat companion, whose motto is "those who fall behind feed the wolves and keep us strong" kept going. I had nearly caught up to her when a man, possibly fifty-something, possibly over-weight, with greying hair, short, with indeterminate ethnicity, stopped and stared. He turned, said something, and stepped as if he were going to follow her back towards the escalator.
When I finally caught up to her, she said:
"Did you see that?"
"Sure," I said, "what was that all about?"
"He said, 'hey ... there' paused, then slowly mouthed out: 'how's it going?'" she told me.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"I just curled up my lip and said 'okay'" she said. So he got the curled lip instead of the Withering Look of Death. But he was creepy.
Not because she was completely out of his league, though she is.
Not because he noticed she was hot, or even that he tried to talk to her. It was the sleazy familiarity. Oh, and if you're going to hit on obvious Gym Rats, do something about that gut.
I had to learn to flirt. That can be good, as I probably am better and talking about flirting, or even giving pointers to the similarly clueless. But I stand in awe of those natural masters of flirting, the ones to whom it comes as easily as breathing. Betsy, here, can't walk into a room without charming all the guys and most of the women. Whenever we take a group of people somewhere, Betsy is quickly arm in arm with the owner of the place, the people in nearby seats, or whomever else might otherwise be offended by our antics. If she runs ahead of the group, we usually catch up to her as she's getting her picture taken with a bunch of good-looking surfer dudes.
Why are Joggers so Hot?
"Don't look to your left," I said, "there's a jogger."
He didn't turn. His eyes wanted to, but his body was firmly in command. My friend has just become engaged. He's still allowed to look, but on this occasion he was basking in the glow of his new status. Our women friends were enraptured by his presence, and he was digging it. But when I said "jogger," he knew I meant a woman who was very hot and whom he should not, absolutely not look at, or he would lose that glow. The orbiting enraptured women would slip from his gravitational pull. She was hot, too. Let me just describe her, for his benefit:
Medium tall, tanned and tonned. Slightly sweaty, long blond hair pulled back. Rocking slightly as she waited for the light to change, and ipod wires coming out her ears. Stretched thin over that marvelous body: one small blue training bra, a navy blue short pair of shorts, and running shoes. Oh, and somewhere, at the other end of those white wires, there must have been an ipod.
I don't know if all guys find joggers exciting. I know women who think that they are very non-sexy when jogging. And, if you think about all that sweat, you might agree. But most men, I think find joggers sexy.
It could be the minimal clothing, or the fact that most joggers are fit. Could be the jiggling, though modern bra technology seems to have reduced that to a minimum. Some people think it might actually be all that sweat and heat and muscle ache. I think it's the iPod.
Joggers are isolated from our universe. They run without seeing the people the pass. They think about heart-rates and miles and traffic, they listen to music and hear nothing else. I've seen male joggers run right by a beautiful woman without a glance. The jogger is sexy because he or she is unattainable, at least for the moment.
And why do we like unattainable women? I don't know, but possibly because she is isolated from other men. If nobody else can have her, then the fact that we can't have her is less painful. We like unattainable women because they are solely ours to unattain. Plus, we know that unattainable women (or men) can be attained through the use of Hollywood Magic. We're not sure how, why, or when this works, but we see it work pretty much every time we go to the theater.
What is creepy?
My favorite jockette was doing her job as a window display for Gold's Gym when she got creeped out. Actually, Gold's doesn't pay her to be a window display. They do put all the elliptical trainers, popular with fit women, in the front window. And, on Wednesday nights, it's ladies free. But there's no doubt that the sight of fit young women working out in the front window does Gold's a world of good.
Anyway, this guy was staring at her through the window. She looked, looked away, and when she glanced back over he was still staring. He had become "creepy." Maybe he was thinking about joining the gym and was just evaluating the effect of working out on her form. She gave him the death stare and he went away.
I've heard guys say: "I want to talk to her, but she'll think I'm creepy." Why? Are you creepy? Pretty much the least creepy thing you can do is walk up and introduce yourself, UNLESS you are so obviously horny that you stare at her breasts as you ask her name. Creepy is staring at a woman from afar. Creepy is catching her eye, holding it, not smiling. Creepy can be a lot of things, but it usually means either furtiveness or obsessiveness. "I've just met you, but I know you are the right person for me," is creepy, because it means you've got a model you want that person to conform to. "I've noticed your attractive and would like to get to know you," isn't creepy. Unless you're just creepy, but then you don't care anyway.
Not that there's anything wrong with that
Like many men who’ve made
questionable fashion choices, I’ve been driven to the use of a FASCAS (Female Advisor on Style, Clothing, and Shoes). My FASCAS has all the requisite qualities. She’s young, hip, alert to emerging trends, and critical without mercy. Unfortunately, she can only work her magic when she is present. Sometimes I am struck by the thought: “how hard can it be to buy a pair of shoes?” and this results.
Those are blue sketchers. As my FASCAS put it, “haven’t you seen their add campaigns?” No, I saw these shoes on the super discount rack at Filene’s. I believe they were once, like, $90 dollars. But when, all proud at the price I paid, I asked the FASCAS what she thought, she said: “Twenty five?” No, dammit.
Anyway, she pointed out that Sketchers seems to be targeting the gay urban male in some of their latest advertising. Not, (quoting Seinfeld) that there’s anything wrong with that. But it’s not the correct marketing niche for my interests. So I’m stuck wearing these shoes for most of the summer, which lead to a constant stream of embarrassing compensation. “So, as a heterosexual, I would go up to the second light and turn right.”
My FASCAS, in a apparent attempt to make me feel better,
sent me this article from the New York Times. It tells us that there is a new middle ground in which straight and gay men are indistinguishable. There are some great quotes in this article, including:
“The result is a new gray area that is rendering gaydar - that totally unscientific sixth sense that many people rely on to tell if a man is gay or straight - as outmoded as Windows 2000.”
And
“For years gay men were the ones to first adopt a style trend - flat-front pants, motorcycle jackets, crew cuts - and straight men would pick up on it more or less as gay men tired of it. Now gays and straights are embracing new styles almost simultaneously.”
Finally, (and this is VERY important):
“Of course there are still places that gay men will go that straight men will not. The Speedo swimsuit is still off limits to even the most vain heterosexual American men, as is knowing the words to Kylie Minogue's latest hit single.”
News of Flirting: Court upholds right to flirt, and Caltrans puts more speed into speed dating
Caltrans has hooked up with a singles club to offer speed
dating events on the train. Meanwhile, Wal-Mart's endless campaign to enforce a placid cheerfulness on the masses has hit a snag. A court in Germany
struck down the company's prohibition on flirting in the workplace. Finally,
this article about how to keep your driver from sleeping with your maid suggests having them marry each other.
Don't Be Her: There's a Fine Line Between Clever and Bitter
But once you're over the line, everyone can see your anger.
A friend of mine went to one of these speed-dating operations. He went to support a guy friend who was supporting a woman friend who was actually looking to find somebody. Sort of a double-wingman operation, apparently. No wonder they say it takes eight support troops for every combat troop.
Anyway, he went through the hurry-date process in good faith, alternately talking to available women and chatting with friends about the people they were meeting. All had the same reaction about one particular woman. Bitter, bitter, bitter.
Her answer to the question: “So, why are you here?”
“Because I’m single, duh.” Technically true, but not true the spirit of the question, which is: we’re stuck here with each other for the next five minutes and I’ll try different things to get the conversation rolling.
Her standard question was: “How long was your last relationship?”
To the answer, “Eight months,” she would respond: “Psssh, that’s not a relationship.
Four more minutes, an eternity of silence.
Making Eye Contact: She's With Someone Else
I'm walking down the street, by myself, and see a couple approaching. She's attractive, interesting. He seems to be drifting off into space so I glance at her eyes. She looks back, raises an eyebrow. Or, I'm at a sandwich place, glance over at a woman with marvelous physical assets. She catches me looking and holds my eyes. Then goes back to sit with her male friend.
Alternatively, I'm with a woman, on the metro or in a store. I glance once or twice at a hot woman. I notice she's smiling at me. Why?
My unscientific review of all related memory events produces this result: women are MORE likely to hold your eyes and even smile if one of you is with someone else. Is it because she is protected from anything strange happening? Does having a guy on her arm give her more confidence to flirt with others? If I'm with a woman, does that give me better marks?
Traditionally, many of us learned that a man and woman together were sort of off limits to flirting. But, in my city, only a small percentage of the pairs of men and women you see together are actually couples. And the ones that are may be on the way out. So may as well keep the radar online.
Why are sunglasses so sexy?
After all attempts to fix my glasses failed, I got contacts. Naturally, I immediately went out and bought some sunglasses. They're great at keeping the sun out, but I found myself wearing them well into twilight. Why? I felt cool. I wasn't the only one, either. Cool men and women were still wearing sunglasses as the increasingly dim light did nothing to justify them. Today I walked by three hot women, one wearing sunglasses. I found myself tracking her and ignoring the other two as they passed around me. One of my favorite Cityflirting pictures has a sexy aura that seems to rise from the interplay between the sunglasses and the eyebrow.
Sunglasses are sexy. Why?
I checked in with a designer, who has this theory about sunglasses and faces: "attractiveness is partially based on the size of a person's eyes, the way the fit into the face. Sunglasses leave that up to the imagination. It creates an air of mystery."
My own theory goes back to eye contact. Eyes connecting create a sense of frission, a passing relationship. Often we shift our eyes, glancing, glancing away, creating the constant possibility of contact. With sunglasses, this process is refined. The eyes are hidden, but might already be locked on. Or closed. The rest of the face kind of tells you what the eyes are doing, but you can't be sure. Sunglasses are sort of like a low-cut, possibly see-through blouse. You almost think you see something, so you can't quite look away. What yoiu think you might see is probably better than what's really there.
Yesterday, I Bought a Pink Shirt
According
to this article, I'm on the trailing edge of the latest trend. Men are no longer trying to be macho super-heroes. Now we can be sensitive. I thought the whole sensitive man thing was attempted and dropped in the late 70s early 80s. Back then it turned out that "sensitive men" mostly became much more sensitive to their own needs. Needy isn't as attractive as it looks on paper.
But this article speaks more to the fashion we are allowed to try. Pink isn't necessarily sensitive, it's flambouyant. And, after navigating through the twin pillars of "Do I look gay?" and "No, really, I'm not homophobic," men who were raised to be conservative in appearance are out there trying new colors and looks. The article, of course, mentions that the economy is lagging and this new profile may help create a new market. Another alarming note is that, apparently, the French are basically profiling American men. Isn't there some potential for subversion here?
Still, without all that thinking, buying the pink shirt was fun. Of course I took along a hot, happening woman to help me choose. Most of my clothes have been approved by women, or at least validated by the gay salesman.
In
other fashion news, they tell us that exposed skin, which was nearing the point where downloading naked pictures was a waste of time, is going away. The article quotes a variety of 15 year olds, which raises another question. Why does everyone have to wait and see what the 15 year olds are doing?
Buy this t-shirt.
I'm pushing t-shirts. If you buy this, and look really good in it, send me a pic and I'll post it up. The shirt has the guy on the back, and comes in a variety of styles. Click on the Cityflirting t-shirt graphic to your right.
the back
and, on the back of said t-shirt.
Best Breakup Line
A great breakup line has the following features:
- Clear and non-negotiable.
- Invokes a feature that isn't really the fault of either party.
- Explains that there really was something, but that something isn't enough.
- Avoids being turned into a critique.
If a breakup line offers room for negotiation, it isn't really a breakup line, just a power move. "You're too messy, too skinny, don't pay enough attention to my needs, spend too much time with your friends, whatever." All those things can be fixed.
If you say: "I just don't like tall women/men," then the other person might wonder why you didn't notice that before you started going out.
The best line, I think, is this: "I'm not the man/woman you want me to be, and I'm not comfortable trying to become that person."
News that can't wait: The Military Teaches Flirting, and a Senator Lectures Interns on STDs
I spent some time in the Navy, so
this article just struck me as perfect. Basically, the article is about the growing field of date counseling. It has grown to the point that the Army has gotten involved, changing the course title from “
How to Avoid Marrying a Jerk.” to “
Premarital Interpersonal Choice and Knowledge.” Sometimes I miss the Military.
Another column describes a lecture, being given by a Senator/MD to a bunch of interns lured in with free pizza. Of course free pizza is great until you realize the lecture consists of slides showing the consequences of STDs.
Seeing beautiful women through broken glasses
Patrick tries repairing the glasses.
Sadly, I had already tried superglue.
Patrick is single,
drives a min-Cooper.
Still, he's straight. . When I was in bootcamp, we marched and marched and did many, many pushups on a place called "Worm Island." We did not see any women. No live women, no women on the movie screen, no television women, and no pictures of women in magazines.
During this period of sensory deprivation, we marched across a bridge, going to some lecture or other, and someone noticed a person running around a track. A long, long ways off.
"Hot chick," somebody said. The whisper ran through the marching ranks and we were soon all staring off at this figure while trying to stay in step.
"How can you tell she's hot?" somebody asked, breaking our intense concentration. Of course she's hot, I thought. We all thought.
"How can you tell it's a woman?" someone else asked. Technically, breasts were not obvious at that distance, and not even the hair was clear.
But we knew. We knew she was a woman, we knew she was hot. We knew she was wearing yellow.
"It's the color," someone added, "it's so refreshing to see yellow." Because women wear yellow.
What brings this up is that recently my glasses broke. I can see up close just fine. As the distance grows, things seem fuzzy. During our normal Thursday night girl-watching session, I took the best chair, as usual, but had to rely on my friends to verify whether what I was seeing was "hot." Not that I couldn't see it in my head. The street was flooded with beautiful women, and every single one triggered all the normal responses. Hot Damn. Many appeared to be looking at me, too. My intellect questioned this, but I told my intellect to go work on World Peace and quit bothering me. Hot women everywhere, looking at me.
After dark, things get worse, though. I was walking through a nice, residential neighborhood. A woman, with dog, walking towards me. This kind of neighborhood is sometimes very friendly, but often people glance at you, wondering why you are walking through their private world. I couldn't tell. Going into to default mode, I not only waved at her, I said hi, just as her facial features resolved in front of me. They looked grim, at first. Had I seen them, I probably would have looked away. But the greeting was gone from my lips and could not be recalled. With a trace of reluctance, she brightened, smiled, and said hi. I don't think the smile lasted, though.
Some people don't have to be there to flirt.
My friend, the MasterFlirt, keeps this lamp in her living room. The lamp, which calls Uma, speaks to people in ways few lamps really can.
