Let me begin by admitting I’ve done my share of creepy things. Not denying it. Rarely, however, is my intention to hurt the target. Usually, my creepiness involves what I intend to be a compliment, not taken as such. Like humor, I can’t control how my comments are taken and, if I soften my comments, they become disingenuous.
Before I proceed with a helpful guide for men to avoid the wrinkled-nose access-denied glare from the next jilted lady, let me explain why there’s confusion.
A woman is either are stimulated or repulsed by comments based on the attraction level of the delivery vessel—him. If the woman is into him, she will appreciate being called gorgeous, sexy, hot, etc. In fact, if she’s sufficiently attracted, she may even be stimulated when referred to as a “dirty little (fill in the blank).”
Certainly, there are levels and timing to be considered—two things we men often suck at. Just because she enjoys a swat in the keister while doggy-styling, he should not infer that punching her in the shoulder at an MLB game would be similarly received. “Dirty little ho,” in the bedroom might work, whereas, “Smelly fuck pig,” at Starbucks may not. Ladies contend that a cultured man should know the difference. I agree. Let me know when you find that unicorn.
It’s all in the communication, and he’s not about to ask for it, so just sit his hairy ass down and lay it out. (Offer him a beer and some bacon to indulge in while he listens.) Give him a list of words he can use, and where they are appropriate. He needs lots of examples. Have him repeat them back. Also, explain that what is acceptable to you, his woman, differs from what is acceptable to young woman bartending, especially when you’re sitting next to him.
Example: “God, I love the way your ass looks in those jeans.”
Again, we men should know better, but we don’t. Also, qualifying the target before delivering the comment can be creepy in itself. Let’s say I’m a huge fan of Joelle Carter. (I am.) Let’s say I would dive face-first naked into a mound of horse dung for a chance to date her. (I would.) Let’s say I run across her. (Not likely.) Instead of going straight in for the kill, which would be less creepy, I could try to qualify the subject.
“Hello, Ms. Carter. I’m a huge fan. Are you single and sufficiently attracted to me to be open to the possibility of making out?”
She would run. But, how am I to know? Yes, I’m a mere mortal—an antique one, perhaps. Still, I’ve seen gorgeous women with icky men, so it’s possible. Chances are 99.99% she’d find my comments creepy, and deny my request. But, the denial rate is 100% when I don’t ask.
Then there’s the most severe mental punch a man can take: “Why didn’t you ever ask me out?” Ow, fuck. Ow, ow, fuck. God damn it! This is why nice guys finish last. I need to be creepy 9 out of 10 times to find the one. This is also why nice guys drink. Fuck! Really? Why didn’t I ask? I need a beer and a big bowl of FML soup.
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