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WTF, Dudes?!? Pt. 2

July 22, 2013

Maybe I should only leave the house wearing a cactus costume. Not one of the cute li’l fuzzy cacti that you just want to take home and pet until it dies from underwatering and you remember why you can’t get a real pet, but one of the really nasty, spiny kinds that you see in all those postcards from Arizona. Maybe then, guys would finally understand that I am just not that into them, nor do I want to have them get in either literally or metaphorically into me.

I’m not quite sure what else would convince dudes that I have zero interest in party times and sexytimes, especially with them. I wear what hair will be pulled back that far in a librarian bun and perpetually have sweat dripping off my bangs. My glasses are so thick that even with newfangled Microthin lenses, my face still resembles an hourglass with my eyes at the waist. I conceal my actual hourglass figure in shapeless but comfy t-shirts and hiking pants that could, if the retailers were inclined to knock $30 off the price, really be labeled cargo pants. I don’t even wear so much as a layer of concealer in spite of the raging acne that will, I’m sure, make my face resemble Edward James Olmos’ by the time I’m 40.

Although if that means I'm so awesome that I get to TURN DOWN the role of Capt. Jean-Luc Picard and later play the head badass of the Colonial Fleet, that's not such a bad thing.

Oh, who am I kidding. This dude was the head badass of the Colonial Fleet years after being too badass for the role of Capt. Jean-Luc Picard. I’d totally have his acne-scarred babies.

All of which has, through events in preceding weeks not of my initiation, left me staring in wonderment at my bathroom mirror and asking sincerely, “Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me. I’d fuck me hard. I’d fuck me so hard. But then again, I wouldn’t be wearing my glasses, and it’d be a guaranteed good time for all involved. Besides, the setting in which I’m asking the question also throws the answer, since this bathroom came into my possession stuck in a way that only reflects  Myspace angles.”

Apparently, as with my previous almost-too-close encounters of the horny kind, this last bout of wannabe fuckery also occurred in threes. First there was Canadian Bacon in Las Vegas. Then my cousin, who recommended my hairstylist to me, told me that when she last went in for a trim, our stylist told her that the guy next to me at my last appointment really wanted to “get all up in [my] chili, as the kids are saying these days.”

I frowned. “But I don’t know how to cook, and I don’t remember discussing my preference for red over green chili the last time I was…oh. OH!” Then I had to squinch my eyes shut in the way your mother tells you not to when you’re a kid, lest your face get stuck like that (so maybe I should practice maintaining that facial expression all the time). “Wait. What the hell does chili have anything to do with…that?”

We couldn’t figure out a good answer to that one. And it seems as though I won’t be able to ponder that and the other great mysteries of life in my usual venue: RTD public transit.

On one of my more recent rides on the light rail, I had a while to wait for my train, having obtained my ticket just as the earlier one issued its final warning about the doors closing and left the station. So I skulked near a parking garage, listening to The Boss as I periodically stared at the tracks, willing another F Line train into existence.

“…elementary school?” I heard some guy next to me say.

Never pull off your headphones, kids. “What?” I asked as I disregarded my own advice.

“Did you go to [name not remembered, irrelevant anyway] elementary school? Your face looks real familiar.”

“Oh. No,” I said, then tried to put my headphones back on, only to find that I’d been on the last song and my battery was approaching critical, making finding a new album to tune out this guy a risky prospect.

“Damn. You got such a nice face, real memorable. I thought for sure I must have seen your face before.”

“Uh-huh.” Surely this guy had his own train to get on, one that was not mine. But no. The D and the H lines came and went with him making no move to get on. Sure enough, when my train pulled up, I strode on, quickly taking up as much space in the twofer seats as I could. Didn’t help, though. RTD somehow thought it would be a great idea to have two banks of seats facing each other on its trains, so Narcissus of the Denver Light Rail simply plopped down across from me and continued yammering. 

I cursed my decision not to bring a book with me for fear of risking motion sickness. Fortunately, the dude spent the first two or three stops immersed in his own self-involvement, allowing me to stare longingly at the mountains out the window. I also stared longingly at passing cars, sketchy gas stations, the northbound trains–anywhere that wasn’t across from this guy.

At some point, Narcissus said, “But I haven’t been in a relationship, so I have no idea what to expect,” and looked at me significantly. I blinked, mentally replaying what I’d missed, and said, “They’re totally overrated. You’re not missing anything.”

If I thought that would get him to quit, I was sadly mistaken. He took it gamely and rebounded with, “What do you look for in a man?”

“Uh…nothing. I’m not interested,” didn’t have the desired effect, either.

Nor did my responding to his question of, “So, is there anything you’d want to know about a possible boyfriend?” with, “Does he want marriage and kids? Because I dislike the former and I fucking hate the latter.”

Even the one I thought would seal the deal, his, “So, are you religious?” quickly answered with, “Hell no!” got me a brief sermon as well as a pitch for why he could be my very own Prince Charming or King of Kings or some such shit. I closed my eyes and reassured myself, “Only two more stops to go.”

As the last stop approached, he said, “I hope you don’t mind that I kinda followed you out to your stop. I’m gonna go back to mine after this, but I really wanted to get to know you better.”

It being a bit late to offer my objections, I asked, “Where was your stop?”



For those of you who aren’t intimately familiar with Denver’s public-transit system, here’s a helpful map to illustrate my shock:

It's also worth bearing in mind that this map is not to scale, meaning that he followed me for SEVERAL MILES past the point he needed to be.

It’s also worth bearing in mind that this map is not to scale, meaning that he followed me for SEVERAL MILES past the point he needed to exit.

When I finally reached Lincoln Station, I stumbled off the train, quickly violating my overall feelings on bodily contact to give him an air hug when he asked for a real hug. Anything to keep this apparently literal jerkoff from following me all the way to my friend’s house.

I’m not entirely sure how much more brutal honesty I could have given him to keep him from going far enough past my comfort zone, however. I deployed the phrases, “I’m not interested in dating,” “I don’t want a relationship,” “I loathe cuddling, kissing, sex, all of it!” multiple times throughout the conversation, and short of trying to attract the attention of a bored RTD conductor who would’ve done exactly nothing about the crime of this guy talking to me, I can’t think of what I could have done to shake him off that wouldn’t have resulted in ME getting taken away in handcuffs.

But I highly doubt that venting to my personal blog about guys who don’t get that, in fact, no means no no matter what you are or are not wearing will make the next cum-sock-hugger back off at the first sign of blatant disinterest. So I guess if I want to ride the rails in peace, I’d best cultivate more acne and keep working that bitchface until my face is permanently set in an “Old Man” Adama scowl.


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  1. That f*ing creepy. Thanks for the reminder of rule#1: never take off your headphones.

    • Yeah, and considering I’d prevented another unwanted conversation just a few weeks before by judicious use of avoiding eye contact and blatantly not removing my headphones, you’d think I’d have known better. But from now on, the headphones stay on, even if the battery does give up the ghost and I’m merely bobbing my head to imagined melodies!

  2. I love the fact that “bitchface” was one of your tags. 🙂

  3. yep, if you don’t want to be spoken to, keep the ear buds in and completely ignore any attempts at contact. on the train people also fake being asleep so nobody bothers them. it works in Japan. also, you might invest in a ring to wear on your finger, maybe that will deter a few.

    • Yeah, the headphones worked on the light rail before, so I don’t know why I didn’t leave them on this time, too. I’ve also faked being asleep so that no one would take the seat next to mine…at the times I use the train, there are plenty of open seats, so don’t encroach on my personal space!

      As for the ring, I’ve met guys who take that as an even juicier challenge. I could probably write a whole ‘nother blog on unwanted encounters on public transit, but suffice to say that there were a few times where I was still coupled (and one occurred during the brief period of happiness there!) that my boyfriend turned into my fiance, then my husband, then one of the 350-lb. linebackers for the Denver Broncos with no noticeable effect. I also have a really interesting allergy to aluminum, nickel, and all kinds of fantastically ubiquitous metals, which means my fake ring would run about as much as a real one if I didn’t want my skin to break out. :/

      • bummer about the allergy but I am a die hard Bronco fan since the 1980’s so kudos on that one!

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