Women: the Opposition

Let me stop all of you readers, young and old; my hearty, loyal fan base that reaches across deserts and into the most desolate regions with the harshest climates. Those of you that give my page about a dozen hits a month. Let me stop you before you question or scold me for the silly title. I, in fact, do not think of women as the opposition, for that would increase my troubles (which I am shortly going to convey to you) tenfold. They are not a football team to be outwitted at the end of a Hollywood movie about children overcoming adversity. In fact, I can't help but think that that would be much easier to wrap my very giant head around. And it is a giant head. The appearance of which is only exacerbated by the fact that my hair grows so thickly on top. I suppose it's more of a blessing than a curse, though, since my hair is the first thing women choose to touch on my person. An action which is usually followed shortly by a subtle attempt to wipe her hands on her jeans. I apologize for any of these past transgressions. I know every woman that has ever touched my hair is now reading this (sike). Swooning probably at my staggering writing technique and the irresistible charisma it implies about the man behind the keyboard (just take a note, young ladies, that I do have a clean hair schedule and that it is all right to touch my hair without getting violently ill on the first and third Thursday of every month and on any Jewish holidays). But I digress. I always do.
As I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, the title is meant as a joke and a catchy title to draw readers (ha, made you read). Women are by no means an opposing force. They often times accommodate my awkwardness and try to initiate. I was sort-of-recently informed ex post facto that a young lady at a party was leaning against me and talking to me. I don't remember most of the night (being updated by friends the next day), but this is a very exciting development, considering the usual girl-leaning-on-me-looking-for-company situation would result in my stepping out of the way and watching the poor girl tumble aside. I believe you will wholeheartedly concur that this is much more pleasurable than a night of passionate, drunken making out/maybe-sex. You can see, this is a huge step up for me to not completely physically devastate someone that may (or may not) be interested. The last woman that was definitely interested was a while back (it truly has been too long), when she was attending a social event at my old house. She was plainly interested, and refused to be thwarted by a young gay man who insisted that we move the party elsewhere. I was sold. On the female. She was aggressive and very, very cute. Painfully cute, in fact. And she was so persistent in talking to me that I have to admit, I was a little dubious of her intentions. Maybe she wanted to murder me. Maybe she was so cute that I would've let her. I don't think I deserved to be murdered and I certainly don't recall saying anything bad about her mother. I came to the conclusion that she didn't want to murder me and that she was genuinely interested (in all things unmurder-related; wow, just made that phrase up). I even left my own party for about an hour to walk a few friends home and when I returned, she was still there. She didn't throw herself upon me when I walked in the door, but I noted that she made her way over to me almost instantly, ducking and weaving through the crowd like Muhammad Ali. A beautiful female Muhammad Ali. A sexy, curvy Muhammad Ali. But not like Ali's daughter. She's all right-looking I suppose, but nothing to write home about or write anywhere else, for that matter. Sub-par, you know. We talked and flirted the night away and she even participated rather willingly in my favorite event at parties; slamming on everybody else there. Interrupting others' conversations with mean comments and the like. Like I said before, SOLD. When the party-goers thinned, I made food for the both of us and she was into it. Some can wear the mask around me, but I can tell a "food-liar" right off the bat. She could have been in a drunken food-stupor, but she seemed to like very much my vegan "bachelor's pasta". Soooooo fucking sold. Like, wrap it up, I'll take it (though I in no way condone the treatment of women like products, unless of course, I don't know them, in which case I encourage you to be a complete asshole to them, male or female). After we ate, I sat around like a horse's ass, talking up a storm, probably about the moons of Jupiter or the advent of British sci-fi comedy, if I know myself (I don't). She eventually was too tired to wait for me to make a move and made swift tracks, though not before inviting me to some free food at her place of work whenever I liked. I, of course, never showed up (due to lack of courage, needless to say holycrapimsuchawimpandfucktheworld) and the last that I heard of her (through a mutual friend) was that she moved to Seattle. My friends berate me to this very day for fucking up something so opportunistic. She looked wonderful and was all over me like a rash. A sexy, curvy rash! I have another hypothesis about this recurring nightmare that is "failure to launch" at a party. I believe I suffer from a little-known condition, that I shall dub "Sexual a.d.d.". It's a very unfortunate form of social fatigue, wherein the subject tries too hard for the first half of the night and exhausts all energy reserves and clever dialogue. The once enthralling conversation deteriorates into glazed-over eyes and spewed-forth banal platitudes over a warm drink. No matter how I implement the "smoky bedroom eyes", show off my new socks or quote Asimov, I produce the same results every time. My twin mattress welcomes no new guests. J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. fame would ask, "How should I activate?" I have no answer to this and he would probably be pissed that I would so terribly misinterpret his lyrics.
I also have a severe problem in the eye-contact department and this does not help my case. Most people don't understand that I'm actually not a shifty, nervous person. Though I try to look up into a person's eyes during conversation as much as possible, I almost always concentrate on the lower part of one's face. There are reasons for this. One, being that after almost 12 years of going to punk, indie, and metal shows, my ears are absolute shit. I therefore have to look at the mouth often and lip-read as a form of hearing aid. The other, more personal (this is one of the benefits of being a devoted reader) reason is that I have a rather unhealthy (maybe not so unhealthy) obsession with the female nose and the space between it and the upper lip. This is known as the philtrum or the infranasal depression.
It's sad to think that I had great manly aspirations to dive into bed so often with women when I was younger, only to "grow up" into the small boy that I am and fall apart around them. Young minds think they'll grow up to be astronauts and be really great at fucking and rolling dice. This is only an illusion. Much like Santa Claus (is that a German name? or would that be Klause?) and a successful career, it's all bullshit. I'm the opposite of an astronaut, and I don't think I like dice very much anymore. I vow to find time to throw the bones around with my friends soon, though.
Speaking of astronauts, it does not help my situation to have only had utterly shitty jobs since I started working. A terrible, practically nonexistent career is not a magnet for women, despite what Hollywood would have you believe. I implore them to believe me that "college is totally on my to-do list". Yeah, like right next to doing the laundry, buying a time-share, eating a plantain, getting laser eye surgery, rubbing my butt on someone, putting my weenis in a vice, throwing a baby, throwing a baby at another baby, and fighting a baby. When someone I'm attracted to asks what I do for a living, I tend to shrug and get a stupid spit-bubble smile, avoiding the subject by making a lame joke like "play pro basketball" or "scare children". This is NOT FUNNY and I feel ridiculous, admitting that my real job sucks on top of just having made a fruitless attempt at avoiding that sort of conversation. Double-ridiculous. I often then lose what little eye contact I was establishing and glance nervously around the party or the bar and see some complete fucking asshole wearing a t-shirt that says "the man, the legend". An arrow is printed pointing up from the former and one is printed pointing downward from the latter. Fucking puh-leaze. He's making great progress on a group (a fucking group) of girls, demanding tons of attention and successfully touching each and every one of their philtrums. Someone I'm interested in, however, is having trouble even finishing her drink around me. I just pray to the god of awkwardly-shaped, pale bags of one-liners with nasally voices that this particular woman's type is white dudes with noses. Not the extremely attractive aquiline or "Roman" nose that completely bewilders me and pulls the switch on all of my thought processes. Just bulbous. Rather like a doorknob attached to the front of my Irish-catholic mug. A nonetheless practical doorknob that leads me unerringly to Thai food when the mood strikes me.
Despite my apparent cynicism, these are very sexy times. I'm mostly just kidding and totally not venting. Anyone who reads this probably knows me and therefore knows that I love to regale loved ones with stories of my failures and successes. It just so happens that the former are much funnier and exist in greater numbers. I absolutely endeavor to give satisfaction! Besides, I've made great strides in understanding the opposite sex recently, and have received helpful advice from caring friends. They are unwittingly paving the way for me to run back to them every time I need help. They soon will be more frustrated by my problems than I am. I appreciate it, though, and pay them back with humiliating stories. I think it's fair.
Let me warn you, this subject is most definitely not over. You will hear from me again. I need to work on lighter things for all of you to swallow, though. Like long-winded rants on pale skin and food. It's in the works just for you. I just want you to know I appreciate your patronage and if I could collectively give my readers (about 2 dozen friends of mine, really) a ring, I would. Then I would say "tricked ya, you just married me!" It would have to take place in California or something since at least half of you are male. You would, of course, have to front the bill for the ceremony since my income is less than substantial. It would be terrible for the reader ("reader" being the gestalt entity it is) at first, but you could eventually stop talking to me, divorce me, and take half. I promise not to be boo-hoo-butthurt.

Touch my butt,
Craig