To the Atlanta queen in the Lexus who just cruised me not once, not twice, but thrice in the course of my two-block walk to the local deli:
What is wrong with you?
Okay, first of all, you’re in the business district, and it’s noon. This is not the backside of the Quarter, this is not the corner of St. Louis and Burgundy at 3am. This is neither the time nor the place to be cruising for a quickie. It’s beyond gauche, sweetie, it’s just plain weird–like trying to place a to-go order at Commander’s Palace.
Second, I’m in business clothes. I’m wearing a tie, for chrissakes. Not that tie-wearers aren’t occasionally up for a bit of fun. And not that suits and ties and sock garters aren’t among my personal fetishes. But for future reference, you’d probably have better luck cruising guys who dress like Kevin Federline.
Third, I’ve been sick for the past two days with some kinda stomach crud, and I’m functioning at only about 75% or my usual capacity. Did you not notice my glazed eyes, or my unsteady walk, or the way I kept pinching the bridge of my nose in the hopes of holding my throbbing brain inside my head? I mean, under normal circumstances, I’d take your come-ons as compliments, but given that I’m pretty sure I look as awful as I feel, it’s a tad creepy. Do you have some kind of Misery fetish?
Fourth, a Lexus is a little highbrow and obvious for cruising. It just screams “corporate lease,” and the thought of knocking boots in the company car, among laptops and sales brochures and Bob from Accounting’s misplaced thermos, is a serious turn-off. Try something nondescript–a Civic, for example–or at least something generically faggoty like a Jeep.
Fifth, if I didn’t give you the eye on your first slow drive past me, what makes you think I’m gonna change my mind on your second or third time around the block? Such optimism is unseemly.
Don’t get me wrong: this doesn’t mean I’m not thankful for the attention. At my advanced age, I consider myself lucky to get the occasional “Watch where you’re goin’, buddy!” Still, there’s a fine line between “flirty passerby” and “potential psychopath,” and baby, you crossed it.
sturtle [dot] com 