Then some outrageously flattering banter,
Then some outrageously flattering banter, praising my beauty. I was busy trying to think of some contradictory remarks that didn’t sounds like they were demanding to be denied. The first and obvious reply to that was that I now knew perfectly well that he was not to be trusted, because he had just shown himself a liar.
(This, although it sounds like fishing for more praise, is actually quite true and not an indication of self-pity. Once certainly can, I imagine, appreciate my face and form, but only upon long acquaintance and with the additional reasons of knowledge of mind and character. I do not, thankfully, have the sort of beauty which impresses one upon first sight. Additionally, at that time there was a red sore on my cheeck, made from ill-advisedly picking at a pimple during the transatlantic flight, and which now looked like a disfiguring birthmark. Finally, I was tired, and when I am tired, as my roommate has eloquently observed, my face looks as if it has been sculpted out of bread dough.
"You’re mistaking me for my sister" said I, "She’s the beautiful one of the family." This was, I thought, very clever, he couldn’t contradict it without risking insult to my familial pride. And it did get the conversation off beauty.
"How old are you? 18? 20? 16?" Dismissing waves of the hand to all of these, and finally, "It’s a lady’s privilage never to reveal her age."
Praise now of my energy and strength and self-possession. "You must be a Leo. Are you a Leo?" A shake of the head. "A Capricorn, then." I had now abandoned almost all but the most basic considerations of courtesy, and was walking along making dismissive gestures. I briefly onsidered telling him that I was born under the sign of the arrogant emu, but decided to save that for another occasion.
We reached the bus stop, and he had grown discouraged. He bade me good night, and shook my hand, which I returned courteously enough. "I do not ask your age," he called in parting, "because beauty has no age." Then he was off, and the bus came in short order.
Goodness! said I to myself, riding home, I’ve just been hit on by a stranger. This is something to write home about.
Or, indeed, blog home about.
June 10th, 2002 at 10:38 pmThat was hilarious.
June 11th, 2002 at 5:20 amI think you did very well for yourself.
June 11th, 2002 at 5:24 amGiovanni di Salvi sez: Fangul!
June 11th, 2002 at 3:50 pmThis guy hit on me in the Hard Rock Cafe in Baltimore in front of my aunt (who looks like she could be my mother) at two in the morning the night before I was a prospective. He kept trying to get me to tell him how old he is. The "a lady never tells" routine is a godsent.
As to which sorts of women get hit on… though I suppose the comment would be better off under the next entry… people in Ireland, at least, seemed not to go for the thinner types as much as the more fleshy ones and stuff. I donno. I kind liked their sense of aesthetics. Obviously a measure of this was being delighted that classmates with brogues and silver tongues actually extended the charm to me sometimes… but like… yeah. I think Americans might really be differentish in what they go for. And more… impressionable. In the face of what a time period’s trendy body type is or whatever.
And you’re very striking. So I wouldn’t be surprised if you had another chance to try fending off suitors. Plot and scheme and take no prisoners..?
June 24th, 2002 at 7:48 am