The other day I was on the subway, reading The Gay and Lesbian Book of Horror Stories (when I bought it, I hoped it would be things like boys waking up and finding everything in their wardrobe had turned to plaid, but, alas, no such luck—it was stupid stories about double bass-playing lesbians and ghosts of concentration camp survivors) and a guy sitting across from me tried to pick me up. I tried to ignore him, because he was SO not my type (though from reading the entries I’ve written in this blog so far, one could understandably think that my type is “breathing”), but he foiled my attempts by sitting down next to me and forcing me to have a conversation with him. He said he worked at Talbot’s in loss prevention. Unfortunately he seems to have interpreted my speechlessness at the existence of this euphemism as encouragement to continue hitting on me.
I thought I would be able to lose him when I transferred to the 1/9 at 42nd Street, but my hopes were dashed when he got out there too. I stood there in mortal agony, trying to end our conversation. Finally I saw an opportunity to extricate myself, make good my escape, and never see him again.
So, naturally, I gave him my phone number instead.
Because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
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