I was sitting in my apartment with the windows open, eating a tin of chickpeas with some lime juice and olive oil, wearing my new unseen MATCHING underwear and contemplating whether it was too soon for another dejected hand of sexual solitaire, when my phone rang.
Somehow the depressing appearance of my night at home was enough to get me up, dressed, deodorised and out the door to meet my friend. I had work in the morning so thought it was a perfect little opportunity to take my new personality for a test drive. The hard to get, non psychotically desperate personality. The one where I was going to make small talk about work and interests and some clever, neat little observations not pertaining to penis dimensions or fitting a hair straightener in my vagina, and relate a few harmless anecdotes about my PG adventures in life. It would help that I had around 20 euros to my name. Enough for just 2 beers and a taxi. Unless I get real drunk and sell my body. (oh god no, flashback of seriously discussing how much money I’d fuck someone for on Saturday night. I think my figure was 1000 euros.)
Anyway, I armed myself with my new swiss army knife, as a conversation starter, because it’s new and shiny, and as a defense against rapists (there is still a sub strata of men who are below my carpet-skimming limbo bar of standards. Short, greasy haired, ugly men, religious people and the homeless.) and headed to the bus stop looking distinctly like a prostitute. This appearance was exacerbated by my friend’s thoughtless directions to “wait for her at the corner of X and Y.”
I was thirsty as hell, but remembered my mission. I was itching for some social lubricant, I was starting to bore myself with my coherent answers to questions and relations of real-world information. I had mad inclinations to blurt out the story about the time I fucked a guy on a bus, or the time I found a bag of mystery drugs on the ground and accidentally ingested what might have been heroin. Luckily I managed to restrain my inner freak and stay on track.
We moved to another bar, and suddenly I was introduced to a mass of strange men, and my friend upped and left, which was pretty uncool of her but also awesome. I had just bought a beer, so I had a legitimate reason to stay with strangers after my friend left. It was difficult to divide the group into ratable chunks of attractiveness, because of the male equivalent of the cheerleader effect. Together, all I could see was a sea of cocks with man bodies and man faces attached. And then one by one, as their features separated into identifiable different faces and names, I realised it was the illusion of the mass, and the hotness dropped significantly. SIGNIFICANTLY. I could have happily fucked a couple of them, if I had been drunk, but wasn’t hugely inspired by the pickings in my clear-headed state. I eventually settled on the most ripped one of the lot, whose face didn’t upset me, and began aiming a subtle ray of charm and sexiness in his direction.
But alas! Foiled.
I was cornered by a Morrocan guy who I appear to have had at “hello”, and who was a little too keen on my sharing his star sign. The unfortunate thing about this, besides my hatred of all things belief-oriented, is that I happen to have the hot sexy passionate dark and dirty star sign of SCORPIO, and although I know it’s all a pile of steaming guano, it gives the male scorpios this unnervingly accurate impression that I am easy and horny and seriously
awesome grateful versatile enthusiastic lifelike in the sack. They look at me with this eager “finally, a dirty horndog like myself who I don’t need to sweet talk to get squidgy-bits access!” expression (it’s a legit expression) and wait, what? you’re saying, what’s wrong with you? That’s what you want! What are you doing, complaining? I thought you wanted a quick dirty fuck?
Yes, of course I do. But the other thing about men who pronounce themselves Scorpio as if it means something to anyone outside their delusional little heads, is that they embrace scorpio like it’s their favorite wanking sock, and more than anything they embrace the deep, poetic, mysterious part of it. Scorpio men want to read you poetry and tell you about their imaginary magical powers or devil related worship or show you their anime drawings or… and now I’m just describing an ex from a particularly dark part of my teenage years. Blurgh. But it’s still valid. And the worst part is that any time I disagree with their analysis of my psyche, they just humm and lean back and squint and take it as further proof. “That’s so scorpio of you” they say. To everything I do.
I tell him I surely am a scorpio, but that it’s a load of bullshit and most of the scorpio traits I have, I have because when I was 10 and impressionable I read my star sign and pounced on the awesome descriptors and developed them, following what I thought were my natural inclinations. He lets that slide. Because it’s very scorpio of me to say so. Because I’m smart, like a scoropio. I take the other, hotter members of the group’s sudden departure as my cue to leave also. I have had one pint and with the foamy goodness still on my lips… oh man that sentence made me nearly… never mind…. I would gladly drink a litre of whiskey, or some rubbing alcohol with a dash of orange juice. Once I pop, I can’t stop. Luckily I’m so repulsed by this fucker talking to me, I can manage to walk away, this once, and cut my losses. What a waste of makeup. I quell the brief urge to grab the hot-ish one by the ass and growl something shameful but inspiring in his ear. They are gone in a flash, and going the opposite direction to me, and all that’s left is this scorpio.
He offers to walk me to the bus. It’s ok, I say. I have mace, and a knife. He finds that very scorpio too. He drops really un-subtle hints about liking me and finding me intriguing. I ignore them and try to pull out some of the lines that have repelled so many brave men before him. Nothing sticks. He likes it. He likes it and I couldn’t be more repulsed. I rack my brains for really awful things to say, but somehow the river of crazy eludes me and I’m making sensible, interesting comment after sensible, interesting comment. I care so little about impressing this guy, that I’m at ease and acting like a real person, being all witty and together and exuding charm. He’s hooked. He wants more. He touches my arm for no reason, and flashes his teeth in what is probably his most winning smile. I mutter something about being a serial killer. He chuckles.
Goddammit, stop being so fucking obvious, I think, it’s so obvious and I’m not fucking interested. I know, I know. My standards are super low, and I don’t believe in star signs. I can’t be saying no to some guy just because he’s a scorpio. Well…. I’m sorry, but this guy thinks I’m way too cool. He’s sensitive, he’s deep, he thinks I’m those things. And he’s not hot. And he’d be so way totally into me afterwards, I’d never get rid of him and the memory would haunt me well into the rosy future when I’m back on form and scoring within and above my own lofty capabilities again. I always feel like if the hot guys I end up with could see the string of undesirables that have parted the cobwebs in my lower moments, the game would be up and my picture would be pasted behind the counter at the headquarters of attractive men, and I would never be served again.
I get a taxi with my last 15 euros, just to avoid the awkward being waited with at the bus stop scenario. I feel like I’d owe him if he waited. I’d rather not be in some random guy’s debt for something I don’t want, ie, his company while I wait in a safe part of town, armed, for a bus. I say goodbye, as he goes into pre-kiss stance, I shake his hand in as awkward a manner as I can. He asks how he can get in touch, I breezily mention having given my details to one of his friends, so “I’ll see you around”. He throws out a parting cringe-maker: “I’ll se you around…. within the group and…hopefully outside the group.” I do that intentionally fake smile you give foreigners that implies general good vibes but no kind of commital to whatever unintelligible request they may have made. And I get into my taxi, dignity intact.
The taxi driver is a cool guy, pretty old and rambling. We have a pretty good chat about the economy, which he graciously thanks me for at the end of the ride.
I get home, the key arriving square and true into into its welcoming little slit, in a way unheard of for a 1am homecoming. I land inside my apartment smoothly, without knocking over the ladder, and disperse my clothes and posessions not on the floor, to piece together my last steps in the morning, but on a chair, like a civilised person. I feel a serenity and calm getting into bed with the mental capacities to set an alarm for the morning, and the awareness that I will be up and in work tomorrow and not hugging the toilet with mojitos I didn’t drink dribbling gloopily from my repugnant mouth as my mind tries to grasp how to formulate the words to call in sick when I’m already an hour late.
I am triumphant, and if it seems like a small triumph, let me tell you it’s the first time I have left the house in the evening and made a non-insane, non disgusting first impression and I have at least one potential victim in my sights now (one of the other guys who left early). I just friended him, and who knows? If I manage to go against my nature for at least one more outing, I may have him clamped between my thighs yet… and then what? Lie back and remember I only like the chase. Ooh arr.
I just hope this unwanted other suitor doesn’t cockblock me too much.