I’ve realized my problem and it’s that I need to become more lady-like.  In this post we are going to research and figure out how to flirt with men and maybe consequently “get some.”  One does not simply stroll into a bar with one’s gay nephew as a wingman, order a pint of Flying Monkeys and a round of Jaegermeister and ask the bartender if he will have sex with you (this is not me, it happened to a friend of a friend’s cousin…please don’t judge).  He will FO SHO say: “No I have a girlfriend.” And send you off in a cab. One needs to have more finesse and learn a technique or two, for godsake, there is no need to be a bull in a china shop.  Men these days have to be coddled before you make a hit, they need to be stroked the right way, like a cat, or else they get spooked.

But first, in the past couple of days when I have checked my site stats for what it is that you google in order to find me, I have had a huge spike in traffic from this term:  Lululemon pussy see-thru yoga pants.  And I just wanted to say thanks for dropping by, but there are no see through yoga pants here :(.  But! in any given hot yoga class, you will inevitably see some in their splayed out glory, so maybe that’s what you should be doing instead of trolling on google looking for rogue camel toe.  Just saying.

Also as an aside, yesterday my male platonic boyfriend without any benefits whatsoever (otherwise known as Remainder Man) came over to my house to check out the hole in my kitchen ceiling where it is snowing plaster chips on my stove top as we speak (he will work for beer) said “Let’s go for lunch.” And I, as usual, thought he meant Gabby’s for chicken wings and the company of really old,  glassy-eyed professional beach drunks.  The beach hood is infamous for this particular pack of old dudes who live for the 11 a.m. opening of the beer taps and then do the stroll along Queen Street, starting at Castro’s in the morning and ending at Captain Jacks at midnight.  They spend the whole day not speaking to one another at the bar and then one of them will finally say something and then a fight will break out and somebody gets their nose broken. Lather, rinse, repeat the next day.  I love it so, these are the men that need to be flirted with and I am fully prepared to hone my newly acquired techniques on them.

But no, Remainder Man wanted to go to my gym, where they serve beer and soup.  “I want to eat lighter,” he said.

“No, you just want to see vaginas in yoga pants,”  I said.

Giggity.

So we had lunch at my gym and he as he ogled some yoga-panted MILF-type who trotted by with her screaming toddler.  Some other sweaty gym-regular menfolk with their squash racquets dropped by our table of crass talk, and I came to the realization that I MAY AS WELL GROW A DICK.  I am just one of the boys. What the hell?  I am not even remotely masculine looking, I wear mascara and I have been dutifully reapplying lipstick throughout the day as per my New Year’s resolution, I have projectile boobs and a bunched bum. I rock the latest nail colours, I always carry a purse full of crap, my voice sounds like a little girl (true story, telemarketers always ask me if my mother is home), and I am afraid of snakes.  Not one of these men are ruffled around me, they carry on talking their talk of boring golf shit, completely ignoring me while their eyes wander around the room at the ladies that AREN’T at their table.  It is virtually impossible to practise flirting with them, they are such assholes. They are all bark and no bite.  Even if you flirted with them, they would look at you like you were a frog on the highway and then resume their infantile ignore game.

I left all frustrated, as usual.  My Remainder Man is always kind to me though and doesn’t let those loathsome squash dudes hang around for too long. As we drove back to my place, we passed a girl in yoga pants(!!!!!!!) walking her dog.

“Woof woof,” said Remainder Man.  She can’t hear us, we are in a car, but he does it to bug me.

“Her fucking dog could carry a pizza box through the gap between her legs!”  I’ve told y’all before, when I am jealous, I am one mean hooker.  Look out.  Also I am not even sure why I was jealous…do I carry a torch for Remainder Man?  I feel like we might be in one of those worm holes and we will hook up when we are in a nursing home.

“I know, she is a little too thin, that one up ahead though…HOT!” And she’s an elderly lady with a walker.  And that will be me one day.

“Seriously, what is it men want?”

“They want it all!” Except for me and my phantom dick, obviously.

I must figure this out before I get too old and settle into this mess and become ONE OF THE BOYS in the retirement community on that remote island off the coast of Venezuela I plan on escaping to (you are all coming with me).

I have been googling how to flirt  and I will practise techniques RIGHT NOW, REAL TIME on Refat, the bartender where I am writing this on my laptop plugged in to the far wall but with a direct view of the bar, I will SMILE and begin:

1. Make eye contact.  He is busy right so I’ll just wait.  Bat eyelashes?  Yes I think that is cute.  Maybe too cute?  I don’t know, help me.

2. Take interest in what he has to say.  After I get his attention with this eye contact that is not happening, I am not kidding, there is a woman in YOGA PANTS at the bar and he can’t take his eyes off her, I will ask him about his childhood in Bangladesh.  Goddamnit, it’s been over ten minutes and he’s still talking to her.

3.  When I am talking to him, I will touch myself. NOT IN THAT WAY, dumbhead.  You are supposed to stroke your collarbone or flip your hair, or tickle your own cheek, or something, I read that in Cosmo or some other lady rag.  I do all this shit already because I have OCD.  I am yanking at my bottom lip, and waving my hand, but he is still talking to the bitch in the yoga pants.  Fuck him.

4. Learn from the masters. Since he’s completely ignoring me, I will watch what the hooker in the yoga pants is doing that is so riveting.  Her hair is in a really high pony tail and when she talks, it wags back and forth, like a tail on a Golden Retriever.  She is laughing and he is laughing, this is KEY!  I never laugh.  I am always in a serious panic about something, you know it’s true, I run into various businesses in tears asking for duct tape because my car key fob as fallen off the ring.  A master in yoga pants would be all like, giggling about duct tape and its many uses, she would be using duct tape as nipple clamps and LAUGHING ABOUT IT.  I must learn how to make light of the folly of the day.

5. Watch body language.  Apparently, and according to Cosmo or some other lady rag, most things are said NOT with words but BODY LANGUAGE.  If you fancy a certain dude and you are sitting down, you need to cross your legs and point your upper foot directly toward him.  I think swinging the leg back and forth will help draw his attention to you, it’s almost like you are pulling him in, and bonus, it will also feel good. I had a friend who actually used to masturbate in class this way, no joke, she grew up to be a squirter obviously.  Anyway, I fucking hate Refat right now so I am sitting splay legged with my feet tightly entwined on the chair legs.  He’s still talking to yoga pants, she’s standing up and moving her hips from side to side like she has to go pee.  I am sure he finds that alluring, he probably is into golden showers, maybe even a little scat. Perv.

6.  Touch his arm or tap his leg when you speak to him.  If he ever comes over, you can be sure I will not touch him, scatman poopy germs.  I am NOT a touchy-feely type person.  Although sometimes when I accidentally touch a certain dude, we graze fingers like when he is handing me something or we pass each other and our arms bang together, I get a little electric thrill, and that’s when you know you will hit it off in the boudoir. At least in my imagination. I do not even want to see if this works with Refat.  And he is still talking to that yoga ho!

7.  Make sure he knows you are available.  If you manage to hook a dude with your foot or gaze or hair twirl or whatever and you actually get to talk to him, this is when the word “ex-husband” coming out of your mouth is all magical sounding, not like a disease:  “My ex-husband is taking the kids to Chicago FOR THE WEEKEND!” Maybe the neanderthal will get the hint and throw a ball in your court, or not.  And here’s a pro tip on the other side of the flirting/flailing woman that is me: if you are married or hooked up, it is nice to chat with someone in a flirty way for a brief amount of time, just to give the other person a mojo boost.  There is no need to say “mywife” like it is one word or “WE love the biryani at Lahore Tikka House” within the first 30 seconds of meeting someone.  Just saying.

8.  Close the deal.  If I knew how to do this, I would not be sitting here writing this with such rage in my heart for Refat and by the way, he never showed up at my table:  “It’s the end of my shift,” he said when I finally went up to him at the bar just now.  Light is off the cab.

And that, is the story of my life.