A redhead in her early twenties was standing at the counter rifling through an acrylic bowl of discounted cigarettes. As she leant forwards, her faded denim mini skirt hiked up high enough that one could almost read the sales tag on her thong. Her top, such as it was, very nearly covered the bottom third of her breasts and revealed even more as she craned over the bowl.
I'm not an idiot, though I appear to play one in real life. I know that the reason she was dressed as such was to attract attention. If it wasn't she'd be wearing a sweater and nondescript pants. I've played this game once or twice, and was actually pretty good at it Once Upon a Time. This is the cultural dance we do, sometimes subconsciously, to find ourselves a mate - even if just for an hour in a crowded bar. Of course the attention she demands - the eyes she wants popping out on their stalks so she can feign offence that someone is staring at her freckled 34Bs and not deep into her hazel eyes as they struggle to remember her name - is not from the fat liquor store guy. I know this. And honestly, unless I'm in a social situation where my participation in the game is even remotely desired, I just don't even bother any more. I've done this long enough to know that I have well since passed the 'cute' stage of attraction and settled into the MYSA1 stage. I can read the signals from geosynchronous orbit: 'All Access Pass - Except For You, Cretin.'
I do sometimes on a few occasions, I admit, have to stop and remind myself that I am generally twice the age of most people I know - because five of my best friends are now dead, which has tended to skew the current statistics in favour of 'the fittest' - and that the simple act of being courteous or friendly to someone is often read as 'Creepy Stalker' or 'Pathetic Old Guy' so I tend to make a concerted effort to not to appear 'interested.' It does not always work, unfortunately. Apparently I just have 'That Look,' whatever that is. And it did not work with Miss Semi-Nude America.
Clutching at her flimsy yellow top, trying to appear casual in attempt to obscure all evidence of having breasts, she asked if we had any other cigarettes on sale other than those currently in the bowl. I shook my head and smiled. Not because I was negating her question but because I found her feeble attempt at decorum terribly amusing in an insulting sort of fashion. I told her that we had a few in another bowl - to which I pointed - and returned to the paperwork I was doing when she first approached the counter. She began to explain, as I huddled over my work, generally ignoring her, that her boyfriend smoked menthols. Oh. Okay. She continued to indicate that she had a 'boyfriend' several more times in the few minutes it took her to locate the proper cigarettes, at which point I looked up and smiled again: 'Oh,' I said. I had to wonder what it was about me, or any of my current actions, that triggered in her some feral, primordial fear that I would try to chat her up.
Throughout the remainder of the brief transaction, as she fumbled to the point of distraction with one hand at her thin top, calling even more attention to her cleavage, darting her eyes at me in something of an accusatory manner, I had to wonder at what point in our short time together did she feel that I was committing a mindcrime - mentally raping and abusing her and shooting her dog? I chose not to check her ID as she handed me her money (because clearly I would only need it to memorise her name and address and that was beyond the purview of my job) and returned her change with a smile, looking her in the eye and telling her to have a nice day.
I thought about saying to her, Y'know, I didn't just fall off the truck. If you're so terrified of someone over the age of 23 looking at you, you ought to place smallish mirrors over your areolae to cast back the hideous vampiric reflection of Pathetic Old Guys so that, like Don Quixote fighting the Knight of Mirrors, you can dispel all unwanted advances and illuminate for them the unvarnished truth that they will never touch you. Otherwise, if you're going to dress and act like a Travelling Semen Depository you might as well have 'Approved For All Audiences' flashing above your head. You obviously dress like that for a reason, so don't act offended if someone looks, even if only accidentally. Besides, twenty or thirty years from now, once life and gravity has had its way with you, you will dress like that again and quite nearly weep with gratitude if someone looks.
Instead I simply returned to my paperwork, shaking my head in disbelief as she left...
1. Men You Should Avoid



