Boy story – Indecent Proposals

Doesn’t it seem that everyone has their relationship cross to bear? The one trait that seems to be present in each new relationship potential?

Sometimes it’s a good thing. For example, I know a woman who attracts the nicest guys in the world. I don’t think she’s ever had a “bad” relationship. She still has kind words to say about her exes, although the relationships didn’t work out, ultimately due to incompatibility. Bully for her.

Others aren’t so lucky. I’ve known women who attract abusive men. Whether it’s verbal or, God forbid, physical, they seem to have special divining rods for men who mistreat women. Fortunately, I’ve never had that problem. To be fair, I have dated exactly two men whom I later learned had been abusive to women in the past, but those traits were never bared during our time together. (Obviously, those men wanted to remain alive, and keep all critical body parts intact.)

I also know women who attract possessive men. Not me. In fact most of the men that I’ve dated were devoid of the jealousy gene, and have been laissez-faire to a fault.

So, what’s my cross to bear? I attract cheaters, and men who are interested in booty calls. Not a great bunch, right?

Most of the men that I’ve dated have embodied some variety of both traits, because the cheaters eventually make booty calls . . . to other women . . . while we’re dating. Motherfuckers. (And since at least one of them has cheated with several women who have children, I mean that quite literally.)

But for the sake of this blog post, let’s discuss the booty callers. I can’t quite figure them out.

Now . . . if anyone is reading this, you might think that these callers are obviously people that I’ve been involved with. You would be dead wrong. Never dated, hooked up, or anything else with any of them.

Then you might be thinking that the BC Boys are men that I’ve somehow enjoyed flirting with or perhaps seductively scribbled my digits on the palms of their hands. Ummm . . . no. In fact when I receive the propositions, it’s out of the blue — tantamount to being hit by a toilet seat, flying mysteriously from the sky (yes, was recently watching reruns of “Dead Like Me”). After I graciously decline their generous offers of midnight lust, I scratch my head, certain that they must have misdialed or texted.

This has been happening to me for years, and I don’t know why.

The very first time I received a random Do Me call, I didn’t know what was going on. It was the middle of the night and I had fallen asleep after returning home late from a party. It was only after I told the guy that he couldn’t come over — sleepy, and confused about why he would want to come over at 4:00 am in the first place — that it occurred to me that I had received a booty call. The next morning, I was annoyed albeit somewhat flattered. I thought, “Wow! I never knew he was attracted to me!”

But after the haze subsided and I thought about it for a while, my ego deflated and I became insulted. If BC Boy were really THAT compelled, how about giving me a call before midnight on a Wednesday to see if I could go out to dinner with him on Saturday? How about telling me that I was “on his mind” without a slurred voice, and before consuming a vat of Jack? WTF?

I couldn’t have predicted that that very first BC was like ripping off the first square of a roll of toilet paper. After that first one, many ensued. I got them from surprising sources — men that I’ve known for a while, famous people, friends. Seriously? You’d be surprised.

It wasn’t that the callers liked me so much, but for some reason, I was perceived as a person who would be “cool with it.” I have no idea why. If I were them, I would be the last one to call. Or maybe I was. Who knows?

While I never took the plunge and accepted any of their kind offers, I began to wonder if someone was being malicious, and spreading the untruth that if you wanted non-committal midnight nookie, I was your girl.

I had a brief respite from booty calls while I was in a relationship for a while. After I broke up with my ex, they took a while to ramp back up again, and fortunately never grew to the same volume as before.

It had been so long that I thought my BC days were over, until a few weeks ago.

I was on Facebook (where all evil begins), and I received an IM from a friend. He and I have been friends for years, and we’ve spent a lot of time discussing our individual relationship issues, etc. We’ve had many laughs over bad dates, and had never, ever discussed dating possibilities with one another.

So . . . we exchanged typical pleasantries via IM, until he asked when I was planning to visit him. He lives here in the city, but in an area where there is no parking within a 6 block radius, and for that logistical issue, his place is never a fun destination. Regardless, I told him that he never invites me. He replied that I have an open invitation. Then, joking, I said “Yeah, I have an open invite until one of your hotties shows up, and then I get kicked out.”

He insisted that I would never get kicked out, and assured me that I would be the hottie. I found that to be a bit weird, but I got distracted by the phone and didn’t reply right away.

About a minute later I received another IM. It read “you should come over and spend the night.” I paused, thinking at first that he typed that message in the wrong IM window.

I could go back and forth with the exact dialog, but since we’re at 950+ words already, I’ll spare everyone. The long and the short of it is that I told him that I was surprised at his “offer,” asked him where it was coming from, and he said that he’d liked me for a while and just wanted to see me.

I informed him about a little thing called a “date,” and then asked if he was angling at becoming my FWB (friend with benefits). He said that he doesn’t like labels. (I found it hilarious that he couldn’t put a label on a completely uncommitted non-relationship.)

Bottom line is that we’re still friends, and will remain platonic friends going forward. which I think we’re both okay with. (And if you’re reading this, I TOLD you I was going to write about it! )

What I’m also hoping is that his proposal isn’t the start of a new upward trend.

The sex life myth

Men and women are so different that I often wonder how we get together in the first place.

For example, if you hear men and women discussing their sex lives, there will be a distinct disparity.

If the average man reveals that he’s not getting any, it typically means that there’s not a breathing human female who will consent to having sex with him — or he’s not trying to find her. If he’s just trolling for ass, she doesn’t necessarily have to be cute, or even have a great body (and don’t try to deny it. I’ve seen some of your hookups. I know of which I speak). If he’s not looking for a relationship, he’s focused on the act itself.

For women? Not so much. If a woman complains of her horrible sex life, a man will tell her that it should be easy for her to have sex anytime she wants.

Those men don’t get it.

I suppose we could find random sex partners. We could get really wasted and pick someone (and take the chance that we’ll wake up next to a critter the next morning). Or if we posted signs and craigslist ads, sure, we could certainly solicit some nasty syphilitic strangers to get the job done. But most of us aren’t wired that way.

Even if we’re just looking to have ongoing flings, there are attributes that our partners must possess. They must be:

1. Attractive (Most women are not pulling a Katherine Heigl in Knocked Up. Here’s a little secret — for the most part, my flings have been way hotter than my actual boyfriends)

2. Attracted/available. We want him to be intensely attracted to us, and have time for us — whether we see him weekly or monthly, it’s not sexy if he’s only lukewarm about seeing us, and pencilling us in for 3 weeks down the line.

3. Smart enough to know how NOT to talk himself out of sex. Guys, you have no idea how much ass you would get if you could only learn to use a filter. Sometimes we’ve made the decision that we’re going to hookup with you, only for you to say something so foul that no self-respecting woman would ever lay down next to you.

4. Nice/respectful. Even if she’s having a fling, no woman wants to be treated as though she was picked up on a street corner wearing clear heels.

5. Unattached. Some women won’t agree with me, but, personally, I won’t fling with guys who are married or seriously dating. Casual sex is one thing, but I’m completely uninterested in being the other woman.

See, guys . . . not that easy, right? It’s almost as hard to find a good fling as it is to find a good boyfriend. Hmmm . . . well . . . maybe not.

Boy story — have I met you somewhere before?

Over the last 3-4 days, no less than four guys have opened a conversation with some derivation of: “You look familiar. Have we met?”

I typically have to entertain these ponderings because a small percentage (about 2%) of the men recognize me from RedEye — although it never occurs to me that anyone would recognize me from the column. Why would they? Everytime I look at my picture, I wonder who that woman is. But if they do recognize me, I’m really grateful that they take the time to read my frivolous rantings and think enough of me to say hello (irrespective of their opinion of my work).

Another small faction (28%) is comprised of guys that I’ve known or met through friends in the past. Usually we have mutual recognition, as I rarely forget a face and can often conjure a matching name and circumstance under which we met.

The remainder (a whopping 70%) frankly pisses me off. Why? Because I’ve never seen them before in my life, they KNOW they don’t know me, and yet they insist on standing there for 5-10 minutes — if not more — “trying to figure it out.” I try to be nice about it, which lasts for about 5 minutes. But when they persistently hold me there until it “comes to them,” I become a little snippy that I’ve been sucked in as part of their weird little game. And then I become “the bitch.” Now . . .don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind, but if I’m going to get that label, at least let it be for something real, not for having a bad reaction to a pickup line.

I won’t bore you with ALL of the stories, but I’ll give you a few memorable ones.

Friday, walking to a lunch meeting in the rainy Gold Coast, I felt someone walking next to me, and then heard a voice from outside of the perimeter of my umbrella. A uniformed postal carrier was saying hello. I smiled, and returned the sentiment. He said “we’ve met several times, but you obviously don’t remember me.” I got a good look at him, and then shook my head no, trying not to break my pace to arrive at my meeting on time.

He said “I’m sure we’ve met, and when I saw you I had to say hello. My car’s back there,” as he pointed to the previous block. I looked back, noticed that he was sans umbrella, and realized that he must have been following me for at least a block. I said, sweetly (because who knows if the guy was a psychopath), “Oh, well, you should probably get back to your car.”

“It’s okay,” he replied qucikly, “but can we keep in touch?” I told him that I was dating someone, and (because the postman always rings twice) he asked if it was serious. I nodded (TiVo and I have a really strong relationship!). He said goodbye and doubled back to his car. He wasn’t so bad — he got to the point, and then he moved on. A little creepy, but not bad in the grand scheme.

However, the following night, a stranger walked up to me and leaned in for a hug. I withdrew (because, for me, hugs are reserved for people that I actually know), and he told me that we met a few weeks earlier at a party thrown by a doctor. I replied that we hadn’t. He said that we had. I asked him if he was accusing me of being unaware of the parties that I attend. He told me that I must have a twin. I shrugged and shook my head.

At this point, I thought the conversation would be over. Why shouldn’t it have been? It was a case of mistaken identity, so let’s move on. Right? WRONG.

He continued on, asking me if I was SURE that I wasn’t messing with his head. I replied that I reserve head games for those who deserve it (failing to mention that he was one question away from entering that camp), and then I told him that I thought he was messing with MY head (because he had already ruined my buzz).

He introduced himself and made small talk. When that didn’t work, he asked (AGAIN) if anyone had ever told me that I had a twin. I assured him that my parents would have clued me in if that were true. He explained, “I know you don’t know me, and have no reason to believe me, but she looks JUST like you.”

I attempted a smile, shrugged, and said “Well . . . I don’t know what to tell you.” (Actually, that was a lie. A few things came to mind that I COULD have told him, but he wouldn’t have appreciated those options.)

Apparently that was the turning point — the moment when I became “the bitch.” How do I know? Because the little shit rolled his eyes at me. I cut him a sideways glance to let him know that I saw the eye-roll, and walked away.

The bottom line here? Guys . . . if you want to meet a woman, just say hello and introduce yourself. Don’t pretend like you’ve seen her before and try to create inane conversation. “Hello, my name is . . . ” works just fine. Ladies, feel free to chime in if I’m lying. And if you have seen her before, don’t linger if she doesn’t remember you. Consider it her loss.

Boy story — married men go away

I’m beginning to wonder . . . do I have a sign on my head that says “Married men welcome”??? Because, seriously? I’m sick to death of them, their flirtation, and their feeble attempts to hide their marital statuses.

The story itself is rather boring so I’ll make it brief. Met a tall, cute guy — completely my type — very flirty and complimentary and expressed interest in seeing me. Aside from all of that, something didn’t seem right. Granted I had just met him, but my Spidey Senses were triggered. I couldn’t really put my finger on it so I thought I’d gather some info. After a bit of investigation I determined that he was definitely married.

In the grand scheme of things, no true harm was done. I figured him out before anything jumped off. But that’s because I’m a super-sleuth who trusts her gut. What about the women who aren’t natural investigators, and those who take what everyone says at face value?

The other perplexing point is that there are a LOT of women who will cheat with a guy irrespective of his marital status. I’ve heard the married man spiel, and it’s downright comical. They’re not happy, they say. They’re in a loveless marriage, they claim. Their wives are bitches, they assert. Their marriage isn’t fun, they lament. She’s gained about 50 pounds since we’ve been married, they complain.

Break up with her then, you punk bitch, and leave me the fuck alone, I reply.

So . . . here’s a question . . . married men . . . really? Is it SO difficult to keep it in your pants and remain true to your primary relationship? It’s okay, you can give me hypothetical examples from your “friends.” (Has the Steve McNair case taught you NOTHING?)

And women, if you have ever or are currently enabling a cheater (or if one of your “friends” has), what’s the appeal? I really wanna know. I’m an only child; I don’t really understand the concept of sharing.

Boy story – club antics and the married man

So . . . from a previous post, we know that I like nightclubs. And my club experiences provide me with great boy stories.

A few weeks ago, I went to a birthday party that was held in a club. The birthday boy is an old friend; I knew most of his guests, and bounced from group to group.

Mid-bounce, I was halted by a tall, relatively good-looking guy with a pretty smile. One that might have been my type (I likes em tall), if I hadn’t briefly spied a vibrant gleam emanating from his left hand.

Tall Boy introduced himself and asked where I was going. I pointed to the bar. He told me that I was sexy, and aggressively suggested that I stop and spend time with him, since he’d seen me talking to so many people. It was his turn. (Ummm . . . his turn? What am I? A freakin’ video game??)

In the meantime, I had confirmed that the gleam was definitely a gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. In retrospect, I don’t even know why I had to get confirmation. There are very few single men who wear rings on their left hands — unless it’s a class ring.

With that information, I decided not to give Tall Boy “his turn,” but, because he was openly hitting on me while wearing a wedding ring, I decided to fuck with him a little bit.

As an aside, I’m completely put off when ring-wearing married men are unabashed flirts. In essence, what they’re saying is “Yes, I’m married (and I would argue that I’m happily married), but I’m SO irresistable that you might be able to overlook that small detail. In fact, I’m SO hot that you might be down with sharing me with my wife and umpteen kids, and settling for whatever paltry amount of time that I can give you. And I’m sure that you have no problem stepping in on another woman’s relationship, because you have low self-esteem, and being with me is worth it.” So incredibly weak. For those who watch SNL, Biiiiiiitch pleeze! (If you don’t, here’s the reference: http://www.hulu.com/watch/65920/saturday-night-live-update-bitch-pleeze-blogger) As usual, I digress . . .

I told him that I would get my drink and be right back to talk to him. Yeah . . . that didn’t happen.

I got my drink, got (intentionally) sidetracked talking to a group of my female friends (who were WAY more deserving of a “turn” than Tall Boy). Then, about 1/2 hour later, I ran into one of my male friends and hit the dance floor, ironically ending up not 10 feet away from Tall Boy, who by this time had located another woman to dance with.

At the end of the night, I was exiting the club and found myself next to Tall Boy, who reminded me that I never returned to talk to him. I smiled and said “Oh yeah. Wow. I guess I got distracted.” He said “Maybe next time.” I smiled back, but my internal voice was saying “Bitch, pleeeze!”

Aftermath (yes, there’s more), two days later on Sunday morning, I was driving to the grocery store, gabbing to a friend about the weekend. I pulled into a parking space, and noticed another car pulling in two spots away. The driver looked familiar. It was Tall Boy!

I didn’t think he’d recognize me, but he did. Immediately. He was alone, and when he saw me walking through the parking lot, he said “Good morning pretty lady.” (Because he had probably spoken to LOTS of “pretty ladies” the night we met. It was a safe moniker) He mumbled something about getting a paper and coffee and wished me a good day before disappearing inside the store.

I wonder if I’ll see him out again.

Boy story – club encounters and patterns??

I like nightclubs.

I receive much criticism from my married friends, but I don’t care. I like to stay up late, people watch, dance, drink, listen to live music . . . it’s all good stuff.

Sometimes I go alone. Okay, well, actually I mostly go alone and prefer to meet people there. Some people think my behavior is weird but, again, I don’t care because I have my reasons . . . 1. I’m an only child. We’re incredibly independent. 2. I like to be on my own timeframe. I’m not crazy about waiting for people, picking people up or traveling in entourages. 3. If I want to leave, I leave. If I didn’t arrive with anyone, I feel no remorse for leaving alone.

Why am I telling you all of this in a boy story? Eh, I don’t know. Seems pertinent enough. Some people who read my column say that I don’t give enough information. So here I am. Giving lots of information.

That said . . . as much as I like nightclubs, I don’t like meeting men in a club atmosphere. The perfect club scenario is that I run into a few guys that I know, and have a few built-in harmless dance partners. Nothing good has ever come from meeting a guy in a club.

So what did I do on Friday night? That’s right . . . I met a guy in a club.

I was moving through the crowd, heading to the bar and I made eye contact with a man, who looked at me and said, simply: “Can I buy you a drink?”

Now, a few things went through my head. First, when I’m alone, I don’t typically allow men (strangers) to buy me drinks at clubs. Why? Because some guys think that when they’ve bought me a drink, they’ve effectively bought a portion of my time. I don’t want to subject myself to having to stand there and talk to him as I sip my cocktail. Also, if I’m not interested, I wouldn’t want to waste HIS time/money. I believe strongly in dating karma.

But, despite all that, I said “Sure,” and followed him to the bar. Let’s call him M.

M was cute enough, and by that I mean that he was a pleasant looking guy with nice eyes and a nice smile. Was he “damn-I-gotta-get-me-some-of-that” hot? No . . . which is okay. since that type is great to look at, but that’s about it.

I talked to him for a while, and I’m glad I did. Turns out that M and I in the same industry, and there could be some business synergies. We talked long enough to have two drinks. In between the business-speak, he peppered the conversation with a bit of flirtation and nice, well-placed compliments. We exchanged info, and he mentioned wanting to go out on a real dinner date.

I honestly didn’t give him or our exchange that much thought until the following afternoon. I’ve trained myself this way. Countless men have taken my number with the intention of calling and never followed through. Therefore, I was surprised to receive his “nice to meet you” text, to which I politely replied.

Later the next evening, I went to the same club. I approached the bar to get a drink and as I spoke my order to Nikkole, I felt a tap on my shoulder. There he was . . . M, my flirt/conversation partner from the previous evening. He said hello, but that was about it. He didn’t have a lot conversation for me because he had a new girl du jour that he was showering with compliments and cocktails. Apparently she looked “amazing” too.

I got my drink, stood there and sipped it down for a minute, and then bounced off. I didn’t see M for the remainder of the night.

All of the fun had been taken out of the previous evening as I began to wonder if this was a nightly activity for him.

Now, granted, why should I care? After all, I got a couple of cocktails and a good conversation out of the deal. He was a nice enough guy, and I’ve certainly spent more time with worse people. I think that I was more bothered by the cookie-cutter, one size fits all approach.

But again . . . that’s what I get for violating my own rules!!

I relayed this story to one of my male friends at breakfast on Sunday morning. His opinion is that everyone has a dating/flirting pattern of sorts.

And then I began to wonder . . . do I have a pattern? Is there any one thing that I will say to every guy that I find attractive? I honestly don’t think so, but I have to ruminate about it . . . especially since my interractions with attractive men (who aren’t my platonic friends) are few and far between.

I guess I’ll figure it out as more boy stories unfold.

Boy story – Flirting, Shots, Christina, and Twitter

Fourth of July weekend was jam-packed with boy stories. Frog Man (see previous post) was the most memorable, but this one is a close second — and documented on Twitter for those who follow me.

On Thursday night, I went to the Goodman to see a play – “Boleros for the Disenchanted,” which was really good — well acted and directed — but the subject matter made me want to stick my head in the oven. Needed a cocktail.

Enter Christina.

Christina is a good friend, and an actress/comedian extraordinaire at Second City (she plays Mother Nature in the Vitamin Water 10 commercials). She’s been focusing on writing her next show and we hadn’t seen in other in a while, so we decided to meet for drinks after her show at a bar in Old Town, directly across from the Piper’s Alley building.

A few minutes early, I bellied up to the bar and ordered a Ketel and soda with lime. And, because Christina and I always seem to get into trouble together, I was anticipating the need to flirt, but I couldn’t identify any victims.

So, I tweeted: “GinaSpot feels like flirting, but alas . . . No partners in crime.“

At that point, an inordinately drunk woman staggered up to the bar, and slammed down a 1/2 bottle of Corona. She said “If you want this, you’re welcome to it. I shouldn’t be drinking anymore.” As though I would be interested in her backwashed swill.

Again, I tweeted: “GinaSpot: still not flirting, but a strange, drunk woman just offered me 1/2 of her beer. No thanks, beeyotch.”

Christina arrived, and within five minutes two guys stood behind us. They were nice enough — not so cute — but we started talking after I became bitchy when they violated my personal space (I’m big on the personal space). They smoothed it over by flirting, and insisting on buying us shots of Patron. Who were we to decline?

The guys were a little strange, verging on creepy. One of them made sure to tell us that he used to date/live with a black woman. I declined to thank him for sharing that tidbit. They bought us another round of drinks, but once they figured out that neither of us were going home with either of them, they moved on.

As an aside, I think it’s absolutely hilarious when men of other nationalities (usually white men) make sure to inform me that they’re black-woman-friendly. This manifests in several ways:
1. They refer to previous relationships with black women
2. They comment on how much they love my darker skin
3. They make reference to an element of “black” culture, and how they’re comfortable with it. Maybe they quote hip-hop lyrics, or refer to something that happens on the south side. They expect that I and my friends will be impressed. Instead, we look at them as though they have three heads.

But I digress . . .

Again, I tweeted: “GinaSpot: Will be careful what I ask for when I say I just feel like flirting. The Universe delivered flirting partner, but he was scary!!“

I immediately followed that tweet with this one: “GinaSpot: Is being more specific – would like someone CUTE to flirt with!!“

At that point, a relatively cute guy appeared — seemingly from out of nowhere. He was wearing a vest — like one that would go with a suit.

His opening line was to ask what we thought of said vest. We gave it the thumbs down. He took it off and sat at the bar next to me, and introduced himself. Let’s call him P.

P was clearly trashed. The indicators were 1) he had a slight slur, 2) his decision to order a drink was a production — kinda like he was afraid that if he had one more drink, he and his vest might be curled up on the floor, 3) his penchant for staring at me and telling me that he found me attractive. One time is nice. 10 times is scary. He won back a few points when he laughed and said “but you’re not as attractive as me.”

He bought me a drink . . . which I neither needed nor asked for.

In the meantime, I encouraged Christina to order food. I was thinking she would choose something absorbent, like bread. Instead, she ordered chicken tenders, which are about as absorbent as a pair of dice.

As I gingerly sipped my THIRD Ketel and soda, three guys appeared behind us. They were trashed, 21 (25 max), and they were screaming that it was one of their birthdays (which could have been a line to get the guy laid. Who knows). Once again, we had the personal space issue, and once again, that complaint garnered us a pair of shots. They even bought a shot for P.

Just what we needed — MORE Patron.

Again, I tweeted: GinaSpot: Thinks the Universe is fucking with her. Just had two tequila shots w/@christinanthony and a few random men.

While Christina tweeted: christinanthony: Got the glow tonight. Out with @ginaspot and the men are THIRSTY for chrisgina cocktails! -christina

Don’tcha just love social media???

So . . . P. (who’s blood type is now Reposado) got enough courage to ask me where I was going after leaving the bar. I told him that I would go wherever he wanted. KIDDING!!! Of course, I told him that I was going home. He groused about it, and told me that I looked like I needed lots of kisses. I scowled.

Another aside — I was really happy that P. didn’t do the thing that a lot of drunk white guys do, which is to wait until they’re drunk to the point where they can barely stand, approach me (or any other woman of color in their midst) and say “I’ve always been attracted to black women.” Yuck!

He stumbled out of the bar, polyester vest in hand. He didn’t even try to get a phone number, which was fine. He was probably some poor woman’s fiance.

We were approached by yet another man, but quickly declined his offer for a shot. By some grace of God, last call was announced.

My final tweet of the night: GinaSpot: Is packing it in. No longer looking for flirt partner, Universe, so DON’T send another man to buy me a Patron shot!

The lesson of the night — be careful what you ask for — and be specific!

FYI, I was lucky. I arose early the next morning, and my tweet read: GinaSpot: is surprisingly hangover free

Boy story — the Barbecue Stalker

I had a great fourth of July weekend — especially considering that the weekend completely snuck up on me.

But, of course, the weekend wouldn’t be complete without a good boy story.

The back story goes something like this — over the course of several years, I would periodically catch a glimpse of a guy that we dubbed Frog Man. He earned that nickname because his eyes would bug whenever he liked what he saw (also because he’s a funny looking dude). He blatantly stares at women lasciviously. If you’re one of his visual victims, it’s best that you don’t let him get any closer, because he’s liable to say anything, and really . . . you don’t want to hear any of it.

That said, I was at a barbecue on the fourth which was awesome — with the exception of the presence of Frog Man. He walked in and I shuddered.

I’ve never been formally introduced to Frogger, yet he approached the group of friends that I was standing with — two men, another woman and myself. He hugged the other woman (whom he didn’t know), and I immediately stuck out my hand in introduction. He hugged me anyway, and I didn’t have the presence of mind to avoid it. It was probably the most reluctant hug I’ve ever given. For him, it must have been like hugging a two-by-four. He completely ignored the men, M. and J.. They weren’t offended, and found it amusing — especially J., who kept threatening to leave me standing alone so that Frogger would feel free to approach me for another hug. Yuck.

But, Frogger was off to the races, offended every woman in his midst. He asked the bartender if her breasts were real. He grabbed another woman’s ass. He demanded that people pose for pictures. He tried to get a picture of me, but he got mostly hair and a jawbone. He spoke loudly, and caused the other party guests to wonder why he was there, and what his problem might be.

Here are the highlights of speculation:
- “I think he’s just really wasted.”
- “Maybe something’s wrong with him . . . genetically.”
- “You think he might be on drugs? Like, pills?”

Frogger and I had a second negative encounter. While waiting in line for the buffet, he stood not one foot away from me, facing me while I was looking in the other direction.

As an aside — I’m big on personal space. I’m not a fan of close talkers. I never want to get close enough to smell what you might have been eating five minutes before. I don’t want to gaze into your pores. We don’t live in China; there’s plenty of space here for all of us, so back the hell up.

Sick of him in my space, I glared at him, and he said that he was “just testing.”

Gina: “Just testing what?”
Frogger: [to the woman behind me] “She [meaning me] used to be my girl. We used to hang out all the time.”
G: “Ummm . .. WHAT are you talking about? I’ve never hung out with you.”
F: “We used to hang out at Red’s all the time?”
G: “Red’s?? I’ve been to Red’s, like, four times in my LIFE.”
F: “See . . . now she’s trying to play me off.”
Woman behind me: “Maybe she just looks like someone you know.”
F: “No, it’s her. She knows what I’m talking about.”
G: “Listen, you stand in my face, claim that I used to hang out with you — which I didn’t — and now you say I’m LYING about it? What reason would I have for lying? You’ve got the wrong person. Period.”
F: [to the woman behind me] She’s a nice woman.
G: “I’m trying to be. You’re not making it easy, though.”

Frogger went on his merry way — before he got cracked in the head with a chicken leg.

As the evening progressed, Frogger was the subject of much conversation. The women were irritated, and the men stopped ignoring him, and had decided, instead, to take him out back, Tony-Soprano-style.

Frogger must have sensed that he was in trouble and left abruptly.

We were glad to see him go, but I must admit that Frogger was responsible for a lot of co-mingling. If a guy didn’t have an opening line, he could merely point to Frog Man, and say “what’s up with him?” Much conversation ensued.

In the end, a good thing. And he gave me a great story.

Boy stories

It’s funny . . . I’ve been writing a relationship column since 2001, and it’s one of my favorite things to do. A great hobby. The irony is that it hasn’t been great for my love life.

Some of the guys who would ask me out say that they’ve refrained for fear that they would show up in the column. Or at least that’s what they tell me — maybe they’re lying and it’s their gentle way of not telling me that they’re not interested. (My friend Diana N. teases me that they all fear the release of a column titled “Loving an Impotent Man.” I tell her that’s ridiculous — what in the world would I do with an impotent man?? LOL) The other catch is that I don’t date guys who only knew me through the column, because that’s also kind of weird.

That said, if I wanted to preserve my love life, I had to keep much of it out of the column, and off of this blog.

But at this point I don’t really care. If someone doesn’t like me because of my fave hobby, then so be it. I don’t have a “serious” love life, but the random encounters and flirtations that I have are hilarious, so why not write about them?

Look forward to more boy stories — like, perhaps when it’s not the middle of the night, I haven’t had a few shots, and I’m not exhausted.