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Posts Tagged ‘flirting’

NTKOG #117: The kind of brash Blanche Devereaux type who, when she catches eyes with a man, starts tossing out compliments like Mardi Gras beads.

I am: the girl who — stepping in front of the register at Dunkin’ — takes one look at the cashier and squeals: “I looooove your earrings!”

I am not: quite so keen on extending the same charm to men. God forbid they think I’m after something other than their brains.

The Scene: Bank of America, depositing a few checks for my office. The teller behind the counter is one of those good-looking guys with an almost feminine face that he tries to mask with designer stubble; judging by his gunmetal silver shirt and Kenneth Cole pocket square, I’d wager he’s one of those guys who falls on the side of uncool only because he’s convinced he’s so extremely cool. One of those people everyone loves at first sight then likes less and less. But even if I’m wrong about the personality, I can tell he’s not my type.

As he glances down at my deposit slips, his eyes flutter for a moment and, oh, he’s got the thickest, longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen outside of a Revlon commercial. If he were a woman, I would have immediately cooed, but because he is a man — and, worse, a man who might think I’m angling to sleep with him — my instinct is to check my tongue. But hey, I’m not that kind of girl, right?

TKOG: My god, you’ve got the most beautiful eyelashes! They’re spectacular!
Definitely Not Wearing Mascara: Women always say that. They’ve been saying that my whole life.
TKOG: That’s because they’re jealous. Hell, I’m jealous.
DNWM: That’s sweet of you.

For the rest of the day, I thought all was right with the world. I complimented a man! He didn’t take it awkwardly or give me a look dripping with letting-you-down-easy! We were able to interact completely platonically on a lady-dude-to-dudely-dude level of discussing physical aesthetics!

Then it all went downhill. Over the next few days, when I came in to make deposits, he escalated our chitchat to the degree that I had to take out both earbuds instead of only one. By Wednesday of the next week, he had complimented my dress. The unpleasant encounters came to a head when I dropped off a deposit after the 3:30 rush on Friday afternoon.

DNWM: So what’re you listening to all the time?
TKOG: Oh, y’know, everything. Gregorian chanting, commercial jingles. Right now I’m listening to Stevie Wonder.
DNWM: That’s cool. I go to lots of concerts around here. I’m going to one this weekend, actually.
TKOG: Sweet.
DNWM: Do you have any plans this weekend?
TKOG: Uh, I’ve got to clean my apartment and reread The Great Gatsby oh my god look at the time I’ve got to go bye.

The Verdict: This is why I don’t compliment men. Not because I’m the type of raving narcissist who imagines any guy would fall for her immediately (HA!), but because Murphy’s Law says that any guy I’m seriously not interested in will be the like one guy in five thousand who falls for my accidental charms. That way when I tell the universe, “Dude, seriously, can you not show me some damn love here?” the universe can be like “remember that guy at the bank? geez, all you ever do is complain” and it will be technically right.

I think I’m just going to stick to complimenting women. They’re lovely creatures who smell good and know that I don’t want to hook up with them. That’s as high-pressure as I can get.

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Your comments on MY GIVEAWAY entry are warming my heart, dudes slash ‘ettes! Remember, you still have ’til Tuesday to enter to win a Wodehouse novel, Lush soaps, or a (non-used) sex toy! Which basically sounds like the best evening ever.

NTKOG #75: The kind of girl who quite liberally slips her hand inside your pocket. Non-metaphorically.

I am: actually pretty nimble of finger when it comes to boosting random objects like bar glasses and steak knives.

I am not: sure about the ethical ramifications of applying my dark powers to THE CONTENTS OF YO’ PANTS.

The Scene: Charlie’s in Harvard Square, after my Thursday night writing class, hanging out with Anglophile and Porn Star, a girl and guy from said class. Which actually makes it a night chock full of NTKOG: after class, choking on pre-teen-esque nerves, I asked them if they wanted to just chill and imagine my joy when they actually said yes! (Dear Diary: I finally made some friends!). After chatting for a while (Dear Diary: intellectually stimulating conversation!), we decided to embark on a misadventure.

A target immediately presented itself — quite literally — in the form of a white dishrag tucked into the, um, quite tempting pocket of our server. “Come on!” I told Anglophile, “You wanted a misadventure! You should just grab it from him!” She giggled and steeled herself up, but couldn’t dredge up the nerve.

The other strand of the evening: Anglophile and I were trying assiduously (and, I’ll admit, teenager-ishly) to come up with titles of the fine feature films in which we imagined Porn Star had earned his epithet. Usually I have just about the dirtiest sense of humor of anyone I’ve met, and am an endless fount of puns, so you’d think the intersection of these traits would yield epic success, right?

TKOG: I’m feeling something science fiction. How about — Star Balls?
Anglophile: What are you talking about? Star Whores.
TKOG: Damn.

The server walks past our table, the bar rag swish swishing against the back of his thighs. Anglophile and I reach toward it, then our courage deserts us.

Anglophile: How about a horror movie?
TKOG: The Pecs-orcist?
Anglophile: What?! No! The SEXorcist.

As I hang my head in shame, the server takes a step back toward our table. Swish, swish.

I jump up from the table and track the server from one end of the bar to the other, sneaking out my hand like a cartoon cat reaching into the goldfish bowl. But to no avail: he wriggles out of my grasp at every turn. The man is good. The three of us divvy up the check and I decide I’ll just steal the rag and run. So I sneak up behind server, pluck the rag out of his pocket and — goddamnit, my fatal flaw when it comes to staging a rear attack: make the mistake of engaging in conversation.

TKOG: I really like this bar rag. It’s like the perfect size and color. I want these for my apartment.
Empty Pockets: Uh, thanks? They’re okay, I guess.
TKOG: Can I keep this one? I want to keep this.
EP: Yeah, no. I can’t. We technically rent them from the company.
TKOG: Okay, so can I have something else to remember you by?

The server grabs a beer from the bar and starts to hand it off, then says something about open container laws. He scours the rest of the bar, looking for a souvenir, then finally settles on a fork.

TKOG: Thanks so much — [nametag glance] — Chris. I’ll always remember the night you forked me.

The Verdict: So my pun sense abandoned me for the bulk of the evening, but IT CAME BACK WHEN I NEEDED IT MOST. A really gorgeous tying of the two strands of the evening, if I do say so myself. Although I accidentally stabbed myself about fourteen times, carrying the fork in my pocket on the T.

This is officially the second-cheesiest pick-up line I’ve used on a bar employee in Boston; definitely also the most genuinely amused I’ve been while behaving totally inappropriately with a guy. Totally surprisingly to my anti-touch self, I would not only attempt the klepto as a pick-up again, but totally want to go back and try it again WITH HIM. Except this time I’ll pass on the cutlery and go for the free beer, please.

Also, if you couldn’t guess by the immature shenans and non-stop porn discussion, I would 100% recommend hanging out with random, cool-seeming people who you don’t think you know well enough to hang out with. It’s just not worth being too embarrassed to ask, because the potential reward is so high.

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NTKOG #45: The kind of girl who, lasering forth volumes of feminine mystique and effortless seduction from between her carefully kohled eyelids, is able to win a man’s attention just by flashing him “live eyes.”

I am: wearing glasses, for starters.

I am not: a long, slow seduction. I am animated and utterly brilliant and kind of anxious all the time. Which, I mean, works. But not from across the aisle on a train. (Unless I am changing my clothes and you are a neo-Nazi, apparently.)

The Scene: Before we begin, for your edification, a little clarification on “live eyes”: it’s a concept created by the inimitable Tyra Banks, which she claims is the key to looking alive in a photo. In real-world terms, it’s sort of an open squint that adds some animation to yo’ dang face.

As for application, I present a trifecta:

On the train: Sitting across the aisle from me, a guy in his mid-20s, not really my type (too cute), but wearing unseasonable flipflops and bobbing his head slightly to the music he’s listening to. Just by looking at him, I can hear his cigarette streaked voice, the way it probably grinds and growls into function after he first wakes up.

Wait, what were we talking about?

So I focus my thoughts on him and live-eyes with all the (considerable) intensity I can muster. After only a few seconds, he looks up at me and we maintain eye contact for five or six long seconds. Then he stares back at his iPod. I continue live-eyesing him off and on — falling just short of Senior VP of Stalker Affairs, basically — and he keeps looking back at me. As he gets off the train (darn!), he looks over his shoulder at me for a second or two, then walks out of my life forever.

At the bagel shop: When I go to grab breakfast before work, I notice that my old favorite employee is gone — to my somewhat relief — and has been replaced with a guy about my age. One of those guys with flippy hair who quotes himself a lot on his AIM profile, you know? He seems sort of out of it, but I live-eyes him with searing intensity while ordering.

TKOG: Cinnamon raisin bagel, lite cream cheese, absolutely no drink or coffee.
Flippy Haired Banal Quoter: Sure, and — [he looks up and catches my eye. the rest of our conversation is weirdly unblinking.] and — do you want some coffee with that?
TKOG: Absolutely no drink or coffee.
FHBQ: Oh, yeah. Wait, what kind of light cream cheese? We have normal or scallion.
TKOG: Well, it’s a cinnamon-raisin bagel, so…
FHBQ: Okay, so…
TKOG: Plain. I’m guessing it’s been a long morning?
FHBQ: I don’t get it.

So. On the evidence of this, I’m going to go ahead and assume that the intensity of my live eyes actually turned off his higher brain functioning. Or that he’s a dude who works at a bagel shop. Either/or.

At Work: Oh, guys. Guys. It is no great secret — at least on my personal Twitter account — that I am hopelessly pining for one of the gentlemen who works in my office. He is very clever, early ’30s, absurdly handsome (at least for TKOG’s values of “absurdly handsome,” which run to paunchiness and thinning hairlines), and he does not know I’m alive. Sad day, right?

So I’m sitting at work, and he cuts in front of my reception desk on his way to the supply room. Good morning, he pleasant-office-blathers as he walks by. I swivel my chair to face him directly and beam him with my over-worked live eyes. Good morning, I tell him, radiating smile-with-your-friggin’-soul all over the office.

And guys! He pivoted on his heels and STOPPED IN FRONT OF MY DESK.

“Good morning!” he repeated. “It’s a really great morning, isn’t it? How are you on this great morning?”

YOU GUYS I AM NOT EXAGGERATING! He word-vommed all over me! I spent a moment … uh … rubbing said metaphorical vom into my skin (?!), then — answered him briskly and waited for him to go away so I could resume my quiet sighing and pining. ’cause I mean, dude, he’s a legit adult with a job and I just address labels for him, so, y’know, let’s not go messing up the natural order.

The Verdict: I am absolutely floored by how much live-eyes worked, with the possible exception of on the brain-dead bagel slinger. I mean, clearly it’s not that every man I passed was rendered hopelessly in love with me — not in the slightest — but it did seem to magically elevate what would have been a few very normal exchanges. I think it just goes to show that forcing yourself to be intensely in the present moment instead of passively retreating into your normal routines really does have an effect on people. It seems to make them more observant too, and make it easier to connect with someone, even if for only a moment.

From now on, I’m going to make way more of an effort to, when I look at people, show them that I’m really seeing them. Also: going to make an effort to start packing my own friggin’ breakfast. I mean, sheesh.

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NTKOG #36: The kind of radiantly personable, indulgent conversationalist who isn’t afraid to let the situation continue long after any normal person would throw a slap, walk away, and be done with it.

I am: mighty quick on the conversational eject button.

I am not: going to have sex with you, men of Boston. And I’m totally not comfortable when you come up and ask. It makes me want to slap you!

The Scene: Behind the Kinko’s near Sister’s house; I have just copied and cut a multitude of cards for the murder mystery party, and am standing behind the store digging frantically through my purse for my cell phone. For context, I am wearing a black cowl-necked sweater, a skirt, and flip-flops.

A man crosses the street from the parking lot on the other side where he’d been standing, and walks right toward me, waving as he approaches. I look over my shoulder — who, me? Yes, me. He asks for the time and I tell him I have no idea, as my cell is MIA. He then asks when I’m up to, and I mention the party and return the question. He is taking real estate courses at a continuing education center across the street, he tells me, and it’s so empowering.

We chat a little bit about what the current market means for real estate in Boston, which moves into a discussion of California real estate, then just how friggin’ beautiful wine country is. He is a nice man, and very professional though sort of blue collar. I am enjoying our conversation, even though I am 0% attracted to him (too old; bad teeth). Then:

Empowered Future Broker: Can I tell you something? Off the record?
TKOG: Uh, okay, sure. What is it?
EFB: You have nice toes.
TKOG: What?!
EFB: You have some pretty-ass toes!
TKOG: Uh … thanks. And to think I almost wore boots today!

Then, instead of making this the slap-a-known-foot-fetishist NTKOG, I stayed and continued chatting with the guy, about the bad rap feet get in society, and the growing role of flip-flops in the professional world. Then, as he finished the cigarette he’d lit during the conversation and seemed just about to ask for my number, I mentioned I had to run and prep for the party, waved toodles, and left him to, most likely, spend the rest of his class break lingering longingly in the aisles of the local Payless.

The Verdict: So, creepy as the whole exchange was, I actually felt pretty good about continuing to talk to the guy after he’d pulled the sketch card. I mean, as totally misguided as the compliment was (nice toes? mine are strictly average — right, The Ex?), the guy obviously meant it in a nice way. And especially with all the TKOG-ing I do, I respect someone who isn’t afraid to just come up to a person and friggin’ engage with them. It’s refreshing.

Plus, I respect that when he saw I wasn’t into the whole toe compliment, we were able to keep chatting comfortably, as we had before. Turns out a sketchy guy can redeem himself. Who knew?! Still, I can only hope that by indulging him in conversation, he can sense that I was trying to reward personable-with-strangers-ness, and not tacitly approving public toe-coveting.

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NTKOG #35: The kind of girl who flirts outrageously with men in order to parlay feminine wiles into fun cash and prizes.

I am: always up for engaging strangers in conversation, that much is true, but…

I am not: so hard up for complimentary pens and coffee that I’m prepared to whore out my personality for them. I mean, unless it’s like a really nice pen?

The Scene: The bagel place across the street from work. I ran out of cereal earlier this week and have been too busy writing my murder mystery party (tomorrow!!!) to buy another box, so it’s been bagels ahoy-hoy this week. My standard order is an everything with scallion cream cheese — ah, single life and its engraved invitation to indulge in eminently unkissable food! — but two days ago I was in a whimsical mood and picked up a triple chocolate-chip. Don’t judge.

There is a cashier in the Finagle I go to who is always very sweet to me, but I can’t tell whether it’s flirtation or not. He looks a little bit like Wayne Brady, but more of a warm glowy mocha skin tone, and some sort of facial hair situation. So yesterday I walk in and decide to figure out once and for all if he’s flirting — and see if I can get anything out of the bargain

I sashay in and basically set the place on fire with my radiance. There is no one behind me in line, so we chat — me, glowingly — about the abominable delight that is a dessert-for-breakfast bagel, which segues into my joking about
drinking beer cream floats for breakfast during undergraduate, which turns into a discussion of the Cambridge bar scene.

At one point in the exchange, I make a joke, and when he laughs, he reaches out and touches my forearm, lightly. I figure I’m set. We’ve already rung up the exchange, but I look at the coffee machine behind him. (Yes, I’ve become an occasional coffee drinker.)

TKOG: Oh, I forgot, I was going to get a coffee! [starts slowly reaching toward purse without breaking eye contact]
Enchanted Cashier: Oh, don’t worry about it.

He turns around and filled up a cup of coffe, then stops for a moment in front of the bakery display and wraps up a chocolate chip cookie. I glance behind me to see whether another customer has come in. No one has.

EC: Here, something sweet.
TKOG: Oh — wha — thank you, but I already bought breakfast.
EC: Come on, no one says no to a cookie. And now you won’t have to get a chocolate chip bagel tomorrow.
TKOG: Wow, you just saved me a lot of embarrassment in the morning. Of course, now I don’t have an excuse for beer and ice cream during my lunch break…

And then — AND THEN, you guys — I winked. A full-fledged movie-style wink. He smiled, I thanked him again, and I walked out of the store. Then totally, totally ate the cookie for lunch. ’cause, hey, free cookie!

The Verdict: Okay, don’t get all on my case about exploiting the dude for free coffee and baked goods. I mean, coffee is cheap as free and they always end up chopping up cookies for samples halfway through the day. Let us choose not to look at this as a case of an employee abusing the system, and instead look at it as a case of TKOG getting some free, quality baked goods. Score!

(Can you tell I feel guilty that he abused the system? Sadly, as much as I thoroughly enjoyed the exchange, I felt too guilty afterwards to fully endorse the experience. Flirting outrageously with guys behind cash registers, on the other hand: two thumbs up. Though of course some might say I was always that kind of girl.)

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