If you know anything about me … or if you’ve read my work … then you know that I have issues, the least of which is being a gay guy with lady parts. I should probably explain that. I’m not a transvestite or anything like that, and all my parts are xx, pun well intended. I’m just a fairly boyish girl with a Double D chest. I assume it’s a result of having way too much testosterone in my blood. It makes me walk like a guy, keep short hair, have a strong jaw, and eat about as much teenage boys. That applies to food as well. I’m not in any way bisexual, but I do sometimes whistle at hot girls, and I feel immensely drawn to pretty boys. Like this one, for example.
But that’s just the preamble. The real story is how I was a dude for a day. Or two. Actually, it’s Thursday, so make it more like four. It all started by being a girl, which isn’t something that I do often. See, usually, when I see a boy that I like, I react in one of two ways. Either I ask him out directly, or I pretend to ignore him completely. The latter is generally a mask for my … um … feelings … because while I’m ignoring him outside, I’m either drawing maps, or ripping on the inside, pun totally intended.
I had this one boy try to make a move on me. He was the smooth type, all prolonged handshakes and stroking my arms and playing with my neck-tag. He gave up after a few hours, because he could get no effect from having his soft hands so close to my … chest. If only he knew. Sigh.
I don’t know why he didn’t get it – I was high on innuendo. Maybe it’s because I said it with straight face. It turns out flirting works best when you’re shy and demure, twiddling with your hair and batting with the lashes, neither of which I do very well. I’m more of the look-him-in-the-eye-and-play-with-words type of girl.
Anyway, an interesting thing happened recently. This really pretty boy asked me out. It was sort of a shock to my system, because usually, it’s me that does the asking. And then they run for the hills. I don’t care what men say about confidence driving them crazy, me, I think telling a man you want him makes him take off and leave skid marks. I don’t know what is is exactly. Maybe it’s the notion that they’re not in control. Or maybe it’s the thought that you’ve done it before. Or maybe I’m just asking out all the wrong guys! But I digress. Point is, a pretty boy asked me out, and it changed me. It instantly sorted my esteem, and God knows how that needed sorting. It left me feeling I could have any boy I want, no matter how pretty, and that’s an awesome thing!
So here’s the problem. There’s an awfully high ratio of pretty boys at work. Really, there is. You should come by my office sometime and I’ll prove it. I’m not the flirty type offline, so mostly I just hide inside my headphones, admire from afar, and wait for brainstorms and group projects to be sure they know my name.
But ever since it happened, I’ve been … different. I’ve been looking at these pretty boys and wondering. Wondering how many live alone. Wondering which one might have a girlfriend. Wondering what to do inside that boardroom with those couches. And, much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been looking at those pretty boys, and looking, and sometimes doing so much more than looking …. but all inside my head.
And here’s the thing – the boys don’t even know it!
I looked at one specific boy and tried to gauge what he was thinking. I wondered just what he would do if I walked right up to his desk and asked for condoms and an hour. I almost did once or twice, but I always chickened out. I stared at him, willing him to know what I was thinking, what I was feeling, what I was doing inside my mind. I felt my senses heighten every time he came close. I felt my fingers start to sweat and my knees start to buckle each time I was near his desk.
I looked for moments when he was alone and hovered, willing myself to sit down and speak – or shut up and drive. And each time, I skirted round him, grabbed a random pencil, or a stapler, or a sticky-note, anything to justify my foray to his desk, while the entire time, I was peeling off his shirt inside my mind.
I wondered what it would be like to just ask him, and I smiled a little. When boys say things like that, they get slapped and insulted. But here I was thinking I should really just be honest. I mean, I don’t want to date him. It’s been ages since I’ve thought about relationships. I know I’m a born romantic, but they’re really not my thing. So no, I don’t want flowers and candy and awkward empty small-talk. I just want condoms and and hour, because he’s the most beautiful thing that I’ve seen in a while, and all I want to do is eat him up. I hear I’m really good at that. Oh, and I also want the cuddling, conversation, and fulfilling after-chatter. I hear I’m really good at that too.
But each time I got close enough to say so, I ducked and walked away, sounds of clucking chickens in my head. How would he react? Would he be amused, offended, or shocked? Would he play along to see where it would go? And would I be as brazen in the sheets as I’d been with the proposal? Would he be disappointed if I wasn’t … if I’m not? Would he be gentle with me if I jumped him from the get-go? If I asked him for an hour, would he treat me like a girl?
I debated all these things inside my head, even as my skin singed every time he walked by, which, by the way, was a lot. I started to poke holes in the thing. Office sex is bad. What if it gets awkward? What if he says no? What if he says yes but he’s really, really bad? What if I decide I want more than just one? What if he spreads the word and I become the office sl…
Is it that hard for guys? Do they watch women, undress them in their heads, and walk around in permanent frustration? Do they skirt near them, longing to explode, but sitting there impotent and silent for fear of getting sued? Are there men out there who stare at me with such intense desire yet I barely even notice?
In the end, I decided this really wasn’t me. I mean, my nuts are pretty brazen, generally, especially since they’re mostly – you know – virtual. I figured if I could watch this boy for months and undress him in my head, then there must be something there, but if I’d spent three days talking myself out of it, then I didn’t want to do it. At least … not nearly as much as I imagine. And once I had that thought, the fogginess dispelled, and I could walk right past him and feel nothing … for a while. Still tomorrow is Friday, so who knows what will happen? I’m grateful for one thing though. I’m grateful for my womb and my lady parts, because unlike the pointed anatomy of guys, a boy can’t really tell what you’re thinking just by looking.
♫ Still alive ♫ Lisa Miskovsky ♫