Thursday, July 30, 2009
Caity's Time of the Month
By Slutty Caity -
Let us start with a fact: older black men love me.
I could walk around a bar with a sign reading "Will Bang for Tacos" and wouldn't get half the response from my demographic as I do on any given day from older black gentlemen in the Whole Foods line. "Why are you eating that salad, darlin'? Come on over here to the hot bar and eat some real food. A fine lookin' woman needs to eat fine food to stay lookin' fine." I swear to God, this was said to me verbatim yesterday at lunch, and it wasn't the first time some version of this exchange has occurred. I'm not sure what it is.
Post-college I was slightly (ok, fuck off, Allie, more than slightly) larger than I am now, and attributed it to varying ideals of beauty within different cultures. However, now the weight is gone and the attention remains, along with what can only be described as wet dreams involving massive quantities of Burger King french fries.
My two best (straight) male friends are convinced my astounding lack of game with anyone my own age is due to the fact that it is nearly impossible for me to look like a cheap trick. Personally, I think it probably has more to do with the fact that when I'm not pounding shots, playing Rock Band and letting them convince me to be thrown over a cement wall in order to break into the community pool at odd hours with their stupid asses, I like to spend my time knitting or reading Victorian novels; and if I really get a wild hair, knitting while listening to audiobooks of Victorian novels. They do, however, have a point: it is very difficult for me to look slutty, which hasn't stopped me from trying.
Last Halloween I went as "The Walk of Shame," and even with my left breast hanging out, strategically placed lotion around my eye, and a condom pinned in my hair, I just ended up looking like a sweet, cherubic version of Amy Winehouse. The Amy Winehouse you might, after a visit to the free clinic and a DIY car wash for an industrial strength hose down, take home to your mother. Or Joey Potter on a serious bender. Really, I'm fine with this, except for the fact that this seems to be the look old-ass men are after, which brings me to my current predicament.
The first time my boss offered to take me to Vegas as his arm candy, I thought he was trying to be funny. Funny the way successful, portly gentlemen who have received the senior discount at Denny's for some time think mildly inappropriate sexual remarks to female subordinates are funny. When, one warm summer day, I wore open toe shoes and he remarked that I had better watch out wearing sandals around him "'cause you get old and you start gettin' freaky," I chalked it up to my new pedicure and the reality that I do, in fact, have oddly attractive feet. I even laughed and played along when he suggested we change our trip from Vegas to a cruise, "because you look like the type of girl who likes to sunbathe, and I like to sit out and watch the ladies sunbathe."
It's not the overtly creepy and perverse nature of his remarks that bothers me--the summer before my senior year of college I worked as a production assistant on a reality television show, and was told by the executive producer that I couldn't log tapes "any better than a stoned retard" but that I had "great tits"--it's that I'm starting to think he's serious. This puts me in an exceedingly awkward position.
On the one hand, I think he's a nice, if sexually misguided, guy, and I don't want to hurt his feelings. On the other hand, there is absolutely no fucking way. Thus far, I've dealt with it the way I deal with most things: I'm ignoring the issue and hoping it will go away. This is made easier by the fact that I just got hired full time at the job I actually like (and is run by gays and ladies), and put in my two weeks at this one. However, when I told him I was leaving he said he was devastated, but that "this will be good, because now I'll get a chance to miss you and pursue you."
What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Seriously, I'm asking.