[Warning: This post deals with “adult themes.” If you can’t handle that sort of thing, then, well, please don’t read it.]
I’m a very liberal guy. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, then you know that I’m all for gay marriage, have gay friends, have lived with gay people, and just generally don’t mind this whole gay thing.
The only time I’m not so hot about it is when I’m being hit on. And this isn’t because the person hitting on me is a male, but rather because, on the whole, men aren’t particularly charming. I know that a lot of straight guys get really uncomfortable when being hit on, but for me it isn’t that big of a deal. I have a “No thanks, I’m just going to get on with my day” attitude. No real harm done.
In the states, I hardly ever get hit on. In Portland, people keep to themselves. Men rarely hit on men, women rarely hit on women, men rarely successfully hit on women, and women rarely, although often with great success, hit on men. We’re an aversive people. Eye contact is to be avoided, personal space is respected, and the slightest intimation that you might like to have coffee with someone is grounds for a sexual harassment case. Our hands (and other parts) are tied by the law, the workplace, and our culture.
But over here, at least where the male homosexual community is concerned, it’s a whole different ballgame. Like any big city, London is packed with people from many different places and cultures. In my travels through the UK and continental Europe, I’ve been hit on by guys from every city, country, and location in the Galactic Federation of Planets. When I was young and backpacking, it was nice because it gave me people to converse with, and I usually let the guy take me out for a meal before I broke the news that I don’t “swing that way.”
However, some of the guys weren’t so nice. I recall having spent about twenty minutes one summer afternoon on Regent street, arguing with a guy from Milan who was trying to convince me that I was gay. Now, flattering as it is that this guy found me so attractive he wanted to convert my sexual gender preference on the spot, the reality was that it wasn’t going to happen, and he was pushy.
Him: But how do you know? If you have never been with a man, then how do you know?
Me: I’ve never eaten haggis, and I just know that I don’t need to do it.
Him: But you should try it.
Me: But I don’t want to.
Him: But you should.
Me: But I won’t.
Him: Will.
Me: Won’t.
Him: Will, too.
Me: Won’t infinity.
And so it went.
The good thing about all of this is that it gave me some real perspective on something, which is what leads us back to the title of this post.
Dear all women in the universe: I would like to apologize on behalf of my gender for some of the pushy, crazy, and rude things that we do in an attempt to convince those we find attractive to engage in activities in which the opposing party isn’t the slightest bit interested. Men seem to have a gene that temporarily limits intellectual abilities when confronted with an attractive specimen of the preferred gender.
To put it another way, guys are obnoxious when it comes to hitting on people, and sometimes they’re just downright creepy.
Last night, after nearly thirty-six hours without sleep, I finally made it back to the neighborhood where my hostel was. I stopped outside a Starbucks to log onto the wifi network and check mail. While checking, some guy came up to me and, thick with accent and thin with grammar, told me that what I was doing was “smart.”
Having been through the same routine about fifty times before, I sensed where this was headed. Within five minutes, this slightly older and well dressed gentleman was going to first offer to take me out to dinner, and then invite me to go live with him in his villa on the side of a hill in some beautiful country. It’s a strange coincidence, but many of the guys who hit on me on this side of the Atlantic have villas in nice countries. Sometimes I think they might just be making it up to impress me and get a quick lay, but I can’t tell. It is strange, though, that of all the people who haven’t hit on me, I haven’t met a single one with a villa.
Anyway, even though the beginnings of this encounter hinted at the usual attempt at wooing followed by the let down when I make it clear I’m not interested, this one went a little differently. This guy, unlike many who came before him, had absolutely no charm, and was sorely lacking in the language department, which meant he didn’t have any way to smooth over his delivery.
Basically, he made about thirty seconds of chit-chat and then got straight to the point.
Him: I am Brazil.
Me: Oh, OK. Well, hi. OK…
Him: You?
Me: Portland.
Him: Is in Europe?
Me: No, no. It’s in America. I’m American.
Him: Ahhhh [wide-eyed smile, following by rocking back and forth on his heels]
Me: [uncomfortable silence]
Him: What you do tonight?
Me: Oh, I’m working. Yeah. I’m going to be working all night. And tomorrow, too. And for the next few days. Just work. No fun. Only work.
Him: Ahhhh [wide-eyed smile, following by more heel rocking]
Me: [more uncomfortable silence]
This guy had that intense, predatory stare that males get when they’ve identified their prey and are about to move in for the kill.
He was handsome, but in that “I would kill my own mother and use her bones for soup” kind of way.
Never mind. He wasn’t handsome.
Him: Where you stay?
Me: [pointing to France] Over that way somewhere…
Him: Where?
Me: In a hostel. I’m sharing a room with ten other guys.
Have you ever said something without regard to the context and only realized a split-second later that you probably shouldn’t have?
Him: [sudden even wider-eyed interest] But you work tonight?
Me: Yup. I’m working. All work.
Him: So, no [he engaged in some wild gesticulation accompanied by thrusting his hips at me] BANGY-BANGY?
Me: Ha ha. No. Not tonight. Just work. So, I have to-
Him: [clearly not interested in whatever it was I was saying, continuing with the full body dance meant to mimic the sweet act of love] So you not make BANGY-BANGY? No KABOOM-KABOOM?
Me: No. No bangy-bangy. I have to work. Sorry. Excuse me.
Him: [now with that “Maybe I’ll kill you and use your bones for soup” look in his eyes] Ahhhh….
I walked away; he watched. I went a few blocks up; he continued watching. I looked back; he looked on. I decided to take the long way back to the hostel.
The sad thing is that this is the sort of thing that women go through all the time. As a guy who has relatively good manners, it’s sometimes difficult for me to understand why women should sometimes be so stand-offish, and especially when all I ever want is conversation or cafe accompaniment.
After encounters like this, though, I am reminded that women are pretty well justified in their sometimes cold responses to warm, but innocent, behavior.
Men can be so damned creepy.