Monday, September 10, 2007

"Is this body for real?"

It's been a while since I've regaled you all with tales of men trying to pick me up, but it was a bumper weekend.

Picture it. A Brooklyn bound Q train. 1:50 am Sunday morning on my way back from the Modest Mouse concert at McCarren Park Pool. A man, whose name I later discovered as Chris, sat down next to me after boarding at the DeKalb Street station. I could tell that he was checking me out, but I was tired and really didn't feel like engaging him in conversation so I stared intently out the window. My, don't those darkened tunnels look pretty.

"You're very beautiful," he said, although we're not making eye contact.

"Thanks," I murmured.

"I just got off work."

Silence. I continued to stare out the window. One must nip these things in the bud.

As I got up to leave at Prospect Park, he left me with a plea of "Stay beautiful." Okay, not so creepy.

The next day, after a couple of margaritas at my local bar, my roommate Libby and I stopped by the Dominican grocery store to pick up some mixers for the continued drinking we were planning for the evening. Perhaps it was the salsa music playing overhead or perhaps it was because I was taught to dance to Latin music by a former Colombian friend of mine, but the music made my Anglo hips, loosened by two margaritas, jerk to the salsa beat, absently so as I moved between shelves of tamarind juice and other exotic items. And when I say move I mean I really started to get into it thinking my roommate was right behind me and would enjoy the margarita induced silliness.

When I turned around to confirm her presence, I instead saw a five foot five heavyset Hispanic man who looked old enough to be my father. And he was dancing with me.

"Is this body for real, mami?" he gasped as his stubby hands appraised my curves.

I let out a nervous laugh and my eyes searched the length of the aisle for any sign of my roommate. My new friend, Señor Papi, even slipped an arm around my waist, cajoling my body to move to the rhythm of the music.

"Help," I called out weakly as I was met with a torrent of praise.

"Is this body for real?"

Then he grabbed my ass. It was a good natured grabbing, but still a Bad Touch. Woah.

"Okay, no mas," I told Señor Papi firmly. He bowed apologetically and began to gravel with a level of reverence that one normally reserved for royalty. I grabbed a bottle of guava juice and made a break for the check out line where I found Libby. Mostly I found the incident humorous.

The trifecta of Man Love came this morning when lo and behold I again saw Chris again. He was coming up the stairs of the Prospect Park station and he stopped when he saw me, eyes registering a familiar presence. It took me a moment to realize that he had been the guy sitting next to me only the night before.

"I thought I was seeing a ghost," he proclaimed and gestured towards me as if he was trying to remember where he knew me from. "I saw you on the train. Late night, right?"

"Yes, that was me."

"What's your name?"

"Rouge."

"Hi, I'm Chris. I just wanted to let you know that you got it going on from head to toe."

Word.

3 comments:

Shannon said...

I love this post :)

Katerina said...

I have a sweater that will always get men to hit on me. Usually in a spectacularly creepy manner.

Ms. Avarice said...

omg what a terribly appropriate post! i'm glad to hear that Señor Papi took your "no thanks" so very politely! and i've never had some random person hit on me like that. maybe it has something to do with mass transit, and the lack of it in my immediate area? how fun!