Attention all short, fat, half-Asian girls stomping around Vancouver in discount clothing, second-hand boots, and terrible hair; with a permanent scowl on your face as though your once-amazing job has turned into some kind of devastating Gift of the Magi/Monkey Paw nightmare and you are utterly depressed about your reality and don’t see a way out: there’s a guy named Steven somewhere downtown who would like to “do that” for eight hours straight because you are perfect and amazing and just what he wants in a woman.
I was scowling my way to work when a guy stopped me at the corner of Dunsmuir and Hornby. He looked like any other guy you’d see downtown at 9:30 on a weekday morning – dressed on the casual side of business formal, carrying a leather portfolio, tidy haircut – a normal-looking dude. When he stopped me, I assumed he just wanted directions or to know the time .. but instead, he wanted to stop me to tell me that I was his perfect woman, and please say there’s no husband or boyfriend “doing that” *gestures to my body*. When I said I was indeed married, he was disappointed; saying he would “do me for 8 hours” because he loves everything I have going on and I am gorgeous and I should tell my husband to have sex with me for 8 hours because he would do me all day long and *aroused grunt* oh man, the things I would do to you. I laughed – what else do you do in that situation – and said thank you but I needed to get to work; all while he was insisting he would do me right and demanding my husband be told I deserve sex for 8 hours and also I am gorgeous and perfect and exactly his type mmMMmm.
So, that happened.
I know that as a feminist I should be terribly offended that a random man felt he needed to tell me I made his penis daydream about marathon sex, but I’m really not. I didn’t feel threatened or even creeped out .. it was just funny. And let’s face it – I never get hit on. I am no one’s (well, except for this guy) “type” even when I’m not a walking wall of doom, so it was kinda .. nice.
Okay, back to being depressed.
4 thoughts on “eight hours”
OH to be a passer by on the street while that convo was taking place. I beg to differ.. you are Ed’s type of girl, and a other’s before him ;) Just cause you’re off the market doesn’t mean the demand isn’t there ! Way to take it as a compliment!
Eight hours? Man, I dunno… after a while I just get tired and chafey.
One of the great tenets of life: “Sooner or later, everyone starts to chafe.”
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