What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, April 15, 2011

She Loves Me Maybe


With almost fifty years of training, I should be able to tell if a woman likes me or not. I don’t mean “likes” as in wants to share a tub of Häagen-Dazs and discuss how dopey this season’s bachelor is (Um, exceptionally dopey, by the way). I mean “likes” as in she wants me inside of her eventually.
I guess I could ask.
“I like you. Do you like me? If not, it’s no big deal. I mean, I’ll be disappointed, but that’s OK. It’s not as if you’re the only woman in the world. Don’t get me wrong—you’re certainly one of the finest. I think there’s chemistry, but you might only like me as a friend, in which case the jury is instructed to ignore the previous statement and we can proceed as before. It won’t be awkward or change anything knowing that I like you, right? It’s flattering to have someone like you, isn’t it? Then again, I may not be your type—not that I have any clue what your type is. It would be cool if I were your type because you’re my type, even if you don’t like me in that way. If you do like me, we could hang out more often and maybe make out a little and see if sparks fly … or not. I promise I won’t be upset if you say you just want to be friends. I’ll back down. Naturally, if there’s alcohol involved I may try again. I can’t help it. Hey, isn’t it better to have me attracted to you than not? We can still be friends either way. I’ve been attracted to friends whom I haven’t slept with. Still, if you prefer a purely physical relationship, I would consider it. I’m an accommodating sort of fellow. What can I say? You so want to get naked with me right now, don’t you?”
Wishy-washy.
Why don’t you women carry bouquets of miniature roses in your LVs? This way you can pluck one from the side compartment, walk up to the clumsy boy, and hand him official notice that you’re interested in the form of a silk rose. What? That’s my job, you say? Rats.
I can give subtle signals—ones I can retract and insist meant nothing. I can lean in, gently caress your arm while engaging in conversation, mimic your posture, or fix that stray hair. Those can all be indications of interest. If you return my gesture with a facial bath of chardonnay or a leg sweep, I’ll get the message. I promise.
Perhaps I should hire a sidekick. She could guide me away from improper (under thirty) targets and closer to keepers. She could spot that annoying sparkle coming from the back of finger number three, since I don’t seem to notice. She could advise me on the proper timing of approach (not while on the phone or waiting in a restroom line). She could read the body language that’s so Greek to me. Ideally, when another hitless night is about to end, she could offer to ice my ego or be my no-strings-attached reliever. Unlikely. She’d probably pat my fanny and remind me tomorrow is another night.

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