Come To Me
Troy Johnson
My ego's hard. Hard like a ceramic figurine, though. Bang it against the wall enough times and it's gonna end up in pieces and good only as mosaic art. I'm a male, a part of the notorious clan of club-stalking libido-driven droolers. Our minds are reportedly so simple that we only work on half of the binary system-there's only ONE thing in this mental matrix.
And yes, while it's true that Victoria Secret catalogs are the kindling for some of my favorite daydreams, I'm not a 6-foot erection when I go out to clubs. But, having mild facial hair and the X-chromosome apparatus, sometimes it does seem that women of the night life think I must be all ADIDAS (All Day I Dream About...).
Possibly this is the root of women's reluctance to approach a man, order him a drink, and lure his uncoordinated ass out onto the dance floor. They think they're approaching a living, breathing, heat-sinking sex toy. I can tell you, though, that most of the normal boys don't believe that a little jigging to the DJ or a bit of shared conversation means the sheets will be a'wrinkled and the parties movin' to the bedroom soon thereafter.
I like the thrill of the chase, indeed. But I can tell you that if you called your neighborhood salesman tonight and said you want to come over and see his product, he wouldn't blast you off the phone with, "hell no, I only come to you!"
The times are changing. Chivalry's a coed concept. If I drove a horse to the grain yard every day, I might like a demure, shy woman. But being the 21st century, I'm looking for a strong will and a decently confident woman-the kind of woman that taps you on the shoulder and says, "hey, wanna share a drink?"
Like I said earlier, my ego's hard-yet-breakable. Over the years, I've been instantly thwarted by enough women who seem to think the whole purpose of my "hello" is to eventually undo their 501s that I hardly ever approach a woman I don't know.
Of course, this isn't true of all women in clubs-mainly high-maintenance, traditional "club women". The sort that have read all the right books and been to all the right clubs and think they know 'how to play the game.' For those, I just have to say-there are a lot of guys who aren't into the game, but merely would like to meet a good girl and have a dance, share a drink, and possibly exchange a phone number. And should we both decide to strip each other nude on the trolley and trip the light rail fantastic, so be it.
But the fact is, most of us don't expect anything. When a woman approaches me, I don't translate her 'hello' into 'gosh, I'm really a horndog and I'd like to see if our groin parts are compatible for the night'.
There are others out there, and they're growing in numbers. The new hybrid of woman who knows when to hide and when to hit. The kind of woman that, if choking, will use the edge of the table to Heimlich herself instead of waiting for someone to do it for her. For those women, my phone number is...
My favorite "approached" memory is from college: entering a party, a younger girl grabbed my hand and said, "you're mine for at least five minutes. My name's Tara." She didn't take me into the beer cooler and service me. Nor did I expect her to. We ended up talking for a few hours, and dating for six months.
My prime attraction to her (which, for a time being, eclipsed the unworkable differences discovered later) was that this was a woman with enough self-esteem to pilot her own boat into uncharted waters. She was the fisher, I the fish. The confidence with which she pulled out this reversal of stereotypes kept me around for six months and keeps her in my mind to this day.
So women, tap that shoulder and say hello. Buy him a drink. Stare the stereotype in the face and laugh a bit.
For a womans point of view click here |
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