I am about as far away from a "Rules" girl as you can get, but I'm still a believer that men should be the ones to approach us and initiate courtship. Not too hard, because desperate guys never have a chance with me. But c'mon, show me something that'll convince me to date and/or go home with you. Recently, I've come across two VERY different approaches dudes used. Both failed. Behold the scenarios:
CASE 1: Not Aggressive Enough
DUDE BREAKDOWN: I'd definitely date him under the right circumstances, but I never quite got any signals he was into me, until...
[Reminiscing about the last time we met socially]
"So, umm, last time we hung out, did I hit on you?"
"Good, because when I hit on you, I definitely want to be sober."
That was it. Did dude proceed to take the initiative and hit on me at that point? No. WTF? Maybe he'd prefer that my assistant call his astrologer to figure out the perfect time when Capricorn was crossing Uranus for this cosmic event to occur.
He did, however, ask me to marry him the next (drunken) time I saw him.
RESULT: Bummer for him, because there's something about him I like. I guess I'll just have to console myself with these nude pix my model ex-boyfriend keeps sending me. Eleven hundred miles and lots of memories of getting it good from me still has him craving more. Not braggin', just sayin'.
CASE 2: Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
DUDE BREAKDOWN: Like En Vogue, he's never gonna get it.
Around the same time, I bumped into an acquaintance of an acquaintance who started hitting on me hardcore, obnoxiously and unabashedly. And in shitty, Game-like manipulative ways. First, he tried to get me to open up about Erlene's passing. Cheap way to get a girl to lean on your shoulder, eh? When that didn't work, he tried to get me drunk, encouraging me to drink whiskey from a bottle. Shit, I'm surprised dude didn't "neg" me. He might've, but I probably blocked it out because his obnoxiousness only encouraged me to get closer to my real boo, Jack Daniel.
Finally, he got down to the point:
"You're coming home with me."
"C'mon, I live on the Upper West Side. Let's go."
Was he kidding me? Did he REALLY think I'd drop everything and go make sexy time with him? With no work put forth? Funny, he didn't look like he had a million bucks in a bank, nor were his pants bulging enough to reveal a trouser monster—if I get my choice at Subway, it's always going to be the foot-long. I've had Horsecock, and you, sir, are no horsecock.
RESULT: I ditched the party like I was Keyser Soze. After describing the night to a mutual friend, I was told Bachelor #2 had once also told a woman that he wanted to "penetrate" her to her face after just meeting her. If drinks weren't so damn expensive, I wouldn't have blamed her for throwing one in his face. Hope he's happy on the UWS with his hand. What Would Mystery Do?
So what's my point in all this? Not sure. Maybe I'm still reeling from these two polar extremes. Maybe I'm like Goldilocks, who needs to get hit on just right. Or maybe I'm just like my mother, she's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? Probably because we're too dysfunctional to get laid.