girlabc

  I don't know what it is about the month of February. Maybe it's Valentine's Day that

prompts failure to wave a nostalgic hello, to check in and see if memory is still alive

and well with me. Maybe it's the past that begins with the letter E, or maybe it's just

an uninspiring and lonely environment that jerks fingers to type, "How are you?" and

hit send. Maybe it's just me. I am the common denominator as recipient, as woman

scorned, as missed (or mistreated?) opportunity.

The sexagenarian in Oman– my former colleague, married but wanting out of his

marriage into another one with me– sent me an email the first week of February. He

said he missed my intellect in the biggest way. He stroked my ego. Asked what it is

an incredibly smart woman does in the States these days. Offered his humility and

acknowledged his insignificance in my life, writing that he would understand if I never

respond to his query.

I never did respond. I had intended to, but I was on holiday and didn't care to spoil my

time by considering him. And wouldn't you know, midway through my fun in the sun,

another man messaged me. I was thrown, and I was irritated, too. See, the last time

this man and I were in touch was the end of December. We argued. It wasn't nice.

Why all of a sudden did he decide to get in touch again? (Perhaps I should mention

that after a year of shyly flirtatious friendship, we got together and experienced a

puzzling and, at least for me, disappointing disconnect.)

I hadn't intended to write back because as far as I was concerned, I had given him

enough of my time and affection, but a friend convinced me that maybe this was the

turning point to whatever the hell it had been this guy and I had been experiencing.

"This message could change your situation," she insisted. "Now," she sighed,

looking intently into my eyes, "Would you please write back to his mail?" She paused.

"Please?"

It was because of the earnestness in my friend's eyes that I obliged. Two weeks later,

it was the look in here eyes again upon telling her that he hadn't written back to me that

I finally did as I had wanted to but couldn't bring myself to do since November: end the

line of communication. It wasn't until I saw the sadness and disappointment overtake

her hopeful naïveté, no doubt a reflection of my own emotions, that I unflinchingly typed,

clicked and entered him into oblivion. Deleted. Done.

Back when we were friends, he had suggested visiting me in my city. I had welcomed

the idea. After we became more than friends but not really, he reiterated again his

desire to come to my city for a visit. I still welcomed the idea, though he hastened to

suggest canceling such a tour if it would be too painful. His words: too painful. I had

laughed at the amendment at the time.

And now? Still, I laugh. Painful? Why yes, I do feel pained by his behavior toward me.

I cannot believe this, the way he treated me, is how he treats opportunity. That had

been his term, not mine, in describing the chance to visit me sooner rather than later.

Well, he seized his chance, he created his opportunity, and he absolutely mangled it.

Stomped on it. Shoved it away. I'm gone, and sure, it hurts some– but I'll get over it.

More than painfulness, though, is wastefulness. Why waste my time out there, so close

to him, as he had said he wanted, but ultimately uncared for, as his attitude reveals?

Why waste my time writing to him, as he had so often encouraged me to do, when he

can't even be bothered to reply? If he can't write back properly, then I see no reason for

him to initiate writing to me at all. Pray tell, am I write or am I correct?

What more is there to say but that in the end, it's a real shame things resulted the way

they did between us: an against-the-odds opportunity wasted; a dear friendship wasted;

and time, always of the essence, wasted.

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ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.

Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perspective.

Do I look sex deprived to men?  It sounds like an outrageous question, but it’s a serious one.  I only ask because no matter where I go, it seems men are so comfortable with me that they just want to go all the way.  Give me a little show and tell to see if I’m up for getting hot and heavy—or something equally fucked, excuse my language.

Maybe my asshole of an administrative colleague in Oman who accused me of leading the teenager to whip out his mobile phone and show me a video of a Japanese chick sucking on an uncensored penis was right.  I’m the one to blame.  The men?  They are the innocents and I, well, I am the corruptor.

Duh.

I mean, I hate to suggest the Omani asshole was right, but when you consider the cases, the only common denominator is me.

Like with the Jamaican brother who offered me a lift in his car because he saw me walking and boobs bobbling (his words: bobbling) and said that he could skip his drive to the gym because maybe I’d want to work out with him (if I knew what he meant, nudge, nudge).  This was years ago when I was seventeen, but eleven years later, I’ve still got it.

You need some proof?

Like with the horny student in Oman who ultimately was expelled for flashing porn on his phone to me.

Like with the Lebanese hostel manager who talked about having had sex with his guests and not having yet succeeded in doing so with an American—hint, hint.

Like with the Egyptian self-proclaimed poet and artist—who really, though, worked at a night club—who not only asked me what I do about sex when I’m alone but also demonstrated the act of masturbation in a revoltingly lewd manner.

Like with the Moroccan construction worker in Spain who basically camped out in front of my friend’s apartment for well over half an hour, waiting for me to emerge, so that he could rub his erection against me a second time and make me want to get into his pants.  (If it didn’t work the first time, why would it work the second?)

Add to those encounters tonight: the Afghan medical student who says he’s all positive and has a clean heart, yadda yadda yadda, but who then in the name of medical research and sexology asks me when I last had a boyfriend and how I manage myself sexually and fill that need without having a man (such as his strapping self) around.

What the hell, I ask?  Is it really me?  Do I look like I need a solid lay?  I know it’s not how I dress—I don’t have things bursting forth from above or below, and I don’t wear tight clothes or sexy heels.  My hair is long, yes, but seldom loose, and I don’t curl my lashes or do anything amazing with my make-up.  I look pretty blah, to put it bluntly, but is that what these horn dogs like?  A blah-looking woman whose world they want to rock?  Something like a dumpy librarian transformed into a steaming sex pot?

I know I’ve complained in a previous post about this recurrent theme in my life.  Men really like to get straight to it with me.  Is it because they don’t respect me?  For sure—men who respect women don’t talk dirty like that.  And I have enough self-respect to know that this lack of respect isn’t an issue concerning me, but an issue concerning them.  It’s their issue to work out.

But in addition to lacking respect, what else contributes to this consistent occurrence?  I am too approachable.  I am too nice—the sort of nice that, as a colleague described just last night when a seventeen year old tried to chat me up in his limited English and told me he loved me, is sincere and makes people think I care about what they have to say.  And it’s true, I am very sincere.  And sweet.  (Damn those horny bastards trying to steal my sweetness.)  Glop it all together into one major sensation and I make for an easy target for suggestive language and adult situations.