Are You Hitting on Me?

I doubt it. I mean, I’m flattered if you are. But, are you? I should know, huh? Damn. I would hit on you. Sure. Yep, you’re cute. In fact, I think I have been hitting on you—subconsciously. Can you tell? Hello? Where’d you go?

There’s quite an internal struggle that goes on during mating season, which is every day that ends in Y. Most people are too shy to verbally club a prospective mate over the head with, “Hey. You’re hot. Let’s go make out.” So, since it’s unspoken, we have the ego versus senses versus desires triangle of confusion to deal with.

Perhaps I can sort this out a bit. I’m going to skip over ones such as dilated pupils, because of my failing sight and the possibilities of my love target being stoned, which could also be a reason why she’s hitting on me, especially if I have a bowl of salty peanuts in front of me.

See what I mean?

All right. Body language is key. If she’s leaning in, crossing her legs toward me, patting or grabbing me, and blushing at my silliness, I’m taking those as indications of interest. Then again, she could just be the touchy-feely friendly type. Further investigation is required. I’ll lean in and touch her hand. If she slaps me then Purells her hand, I know I was mistaken. If she whispers naughtiness to me, I’m ordering champagne to go and a pack of Morning After pills.

Here’s another example of my confusion. Perhaps you can help me. I’ll look for your book, probably entitled, How NOT to be an Oblivious Man-tard.

The scene features a magnificent specimen serving up my daily social lube (beer). She’s petite, kind, and gentle. She’s always smiling and friendly. Her eyes absolutely melt me. So, after my beer balls drop, I get the courage to ask if she’s single.

“Yes. Fresh out of a long relationship.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s all good. We had a friendly part.”

“Oh, good. Anyway, I have someone special I’d love to set you up with.”

“Really? Who?”


She giggled (not a fucking clue if that was flattery, embarrassment, or politeness). We high-fived, and I moved on to beer three. I shrugged it off. Then, as I was leaving, she stopped me and gave me a huge hug. This was not an ordinary, “friends” hug. Oh, no it was not. This was an intimate, “high school boner inducing” hug. My heart nearly broke my ribs a la Alien. Then again, maybe she is just a good hugger and I’m an old perv. God damn it!

Fuck it. I’m going to carry around tiny pieces of paper with, “I like you. Do you like me? Check one: Yes or No.” Best to remove all doubt … that I’m clueless.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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