Creepy Guys

This is a piece of flash fiction I wrote about something that has been bothering me lately. 

Creepy Guys

“Why is it only creepy guys hit on me?”  My friend, Jane, asks me while we are having dinner.

“Define creepy.” I say

“You know guys that are weird or say really inappropriate things.”

“Can you give me an example?” I ask

“Okay. Give me a minute.”  Her eyes automatically drift upward as she thinks.  “Oh, alright, I have a good example.  So a couple of weeks ago, I went to a barbeque at Tabitha’s house.  Do you remember?  I told you about that right?”

I nod remembering vaguely her mentioning something like that. 

“I started talking to this I guy, Kevin.”  She shrugs as she says this.  “We both shared a love of Kevin Smith films.”

“Was he cute?”  I ask

“No, he was a little balding and kind of on the heavier side.  Plus, I’m pretty sure he was much older than me.” 

“Okay, I get it.  So, how is he creepy?”

“Just wait.  I’m getting to that.”  She rolls her eyes at my impatience. “Let me finish.”

“Alright, I’ll stop interrupting. Continue.”  I gesture with my hand for her to continue.

“When I was about to leave, he wanted told me he wanted to hang out again.  I said sure thinking he meant as friends.”

“Okay, I can see that.”  I say nodding

“So, we make arrangements to meet for coffee later that week.  That seemed innocent enough.” She says as her voice seems to get a little higher.

“Sure. What happened when you met?”

“This is where it gets weird.  We meet and talk for a while. An hour or so went by, and I mentioned I needed to get going.  He offered to walk me to my car.  I told him that was unnecessary, but he kept insisting.  So, I let me him.  We continued to talk all way to my car.  When we finally reached it, he was standing next to me.  He didn’t move away.  I started thinking this is getting weird now.  ‘This is my car,’ I say to him.  Trying to hint that I wanted to leave.  He was standing with his side to the door handle so I couldn’t get in and just leave.  Then, he put his arm around me and tried to pull me into him.  I thought he was trying to hug me or something.  It felt very awkward.  When he had his arm around, I hadn’t had time to move my arm, and he ended up pinning my arm to my side.  So, pretty much I couldn’t really move my right arm.  I was trying to pull away, and he leaned in like he was going to kiss me.”  Jane shivers as she says this.  “He didn’t though.  I think something in the look I was giving him told to him not to.  Letting go of me, he tried to brush it off by saying ‘Have a good day.’ And walking away.  I haven’t heard from him since.  Thank God.”

I sit quietly thinking for a moment.  “Let me ask you this.  If the man had been attractive, would you have considered this a date?  Clearly, he did.”

“What? No, that had nothing to do with why I wasn’t interested.”  Jane says a little defensively.  “I just didn’t like him in that way.”

“But you said you had a lot in common with him.”  I argue

“Yes, but there was nothing there.  I didn’t have those feelings.”

“I see.  And you didn’t make it clear before you met up with that this was just friends?” I ask

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

“Are you sure this guy was creepy or just a case of miscommunication?”

“I’m not sure.” Jane says

Lately, I've been feeling like the term "creepy" that girls use for certain guys has been thrown around too loosely.  I, myself, am included in that.  I chose not to use a really example in the short story above, but I still wanted to try to illustrate an example of this.  I also wanted to pose a few questions:

What makes a guy creepy?  Examples.

Can attractive guys be considered creepy or just unattractive guys?

How much less are attractive men considered creepy than unattractive?


I'm not trying to say that there aren't creepy guys out there.  However, I think maybe we should take sometime and think before applying the label.  I'm interested to hear all your thoughts and opinions.

This is a funny a funny video I found when I was researching this topic.

Answering a Question

Below are two versions answering the same question.  There is a woman's version and there is a man's version answering the question "How was your weekend?"

Woman’s Version:

“Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yeah.  I went to the zoo with a friend on Saturday.  It was so crowded.  I hate being surrounded by so many people.  And then there was this one kid who kept screaming because he wanted ice cream.  On Sunday, I had lunch with Karen.  You remember Karen, right?  Short blonde hair.   Oh, she works with me.  Then, I went for a walk.  It was so nice out.  I did get a lot of sun.  It was good a weekend overall.”

Man’s Version:

“Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yeah.  It was good.”

Sometimes I feel like a doormat

        My friend and I have just finished working out and are enjoying the sauna.  “Sometimes I feel like a doormat.”  

My friend turns to me.  I can see the beads of sweat bubbling on her face.  “How so?” she asks taking a towel and wiping the sweat away.

“My friend called me last week crying.  So naturally I asked what /why.  She had been planning a small celebration for a promotion she had received recently.  This was to occur the next day.  The same day she was moving into her new apartment.  She wanted to have dessert, but would not have time to pick up anything.  She went on and on about how no one cares.  Feeling sorry for her, I volunteered to pick up dessert after work.  She brought up how we made cupcakes for another friend, but I probably didn’t have time to do that.  I said I don’t, but I will get some.  I didn’t really have time due to other commitments, but I thought it would be a nice gesture.”

“That was sweet of you, but why do you feel like a doormat?”  My friend asks wrapping her towel around her neck and leaning back.

“There’s more.”  I say leaning back too.  “I texted her the day of the celebration to find out what time to be there.  I showed up at the designated time only to find out that no one was there, only her.  She told me she hadn’t had time to tell anyone what time to be there, even though she had set this up a week before.  Another person who was supposed to be there came early to help her move and left because she had to get up early for work the next day.  I had to get up early too the next day.  I sat there with expensive cupcakes and no one to eat them.  Her roommates stayed in another room and ignored us.  I was beyond mad that I had gone to all of that trouble for nothing.”

“I’m so sorry.  That sucks.  Did you say anything?”

“No, I couldn’t.  I was just too mad, I didn’t want to fight with her.  However, it gets worse.”

“How?”  My friend is now staring at me waiting for me to continue.

I take a moment.  “After I left, she posted a thank you on Facebook to her roommates and her other friend for everything they did that day.  I was not included in the thank you.”

“Wow.”  This my friend’s only response.

Sometimes I think I am a bad person

“Sometimes I think I am a bad person.”

My friend and I are walking down the street.  The mid afternoon sun was beating heavily on us.  She turns her head and looks at me through her dark sunglasses.  Her eyebrows furrow.  “You’re not a bad person.”  she says trying to comfort me.  “Why would you say that?”

I stare ahead trying to watch my step.  I have a tendency to trip on anything in my path.  I take a moment to gather my thoughts.  “The other day I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.  She’s a writer like me,  although I had been unaware of this until that same day.  She mentioned she had a begun a blog about two years ago.  She also has a book she self-published.  Hearing all of this, I realized she is much farther along in her career than me.  I became saddened  by this.”  I pause for a moment.

We slow down and sit on a bench on the sidewalk.  “That’s it?  That’s why you think you are a bad person.  Because you were jealous?”  my friend says surprised.

“No, that’s not why.  There’s more.”  Watching people pass by, I continue.  “I went home and read her blog.  Immediately, I felt better.”

My friend raises her eyebrow and glances at me.  “Better?  Why?”

We both turn and watch woman with a cute puppy go by.  “Because it was full of grammatical errors.  It was full of missing words or ones misspelled.  She used little or no punctuation.  It was clear she had not proofread it.  A couple of mistakes would have been fine, but it was littered with errors.  Simply put it looked like it was written by someone who had never opened up a grammar book in their life. ”

“That’s an awful thing to say.  You’re being very critical.”

“I know!”  I throw up my hands in the air.  “See, that’s why I think I am bad person.”  I bury face in hands leaning forward.

My friend puts her hand on my back.  “You’re not a bad person, just human.”

Selfish

I’m the type of the person who is always trying to do everything or over extending myself. I constantly agree to things before I even know if I am able to. One problem is I love helping people and forget to take account of my well-being. When my life gets complicated by trying to do too much, I begin to get little panic attacks. At these moments, I sit back and take deep breaths saying to myself, “It’s alright.” Then, I make a mental checklist of everything and when it needs to be completed. I go over what I would need to do in order for everything to be accomplished. At this point, the panic has subsided and I feel better. In the past, I have usually managed to complete everything, but at the sacrifice of my own personal needs. New plan, learn to say no and don’t rely on distractions to forget my own problems. Easier said than done, but I have been saying no and working on being at least a little selfish.

Welcome, everyone!  This is my first blog post.  It ail be the first of many.  This first post is a flash fiction I wrote.  Enjoy!

“I’m a member of OTA.”  I say matter-of-factly.
My friend stares at me over her mocha confused.  “OTA?”
“Over Thinkers Anonymous, obviously.”
“Yeah, obviously.”  my friend replies sarcastically.  “And what does this group do exactly?”
I glance up at the tiled ceiling.  “Well, we  think about meeting once a month, or everyday, or a week.”
“So, when do you actually meet?”
“Still thinking about meeting.  Then, there’s the decision of time after that.  So many things to think about.”
“But you never actually meet.” she states.
“Yes, and your point?”
My friend rolls her eyes and leans back in the wooden chair.  “How exactly do you think you are an over thinker?”
“Hmm...I was thinking of starting a blog.  I follow three blogs now, and I’ve wanted to do it for awhile.  Then, I started thinking whatever I choose to do a blog about has to be interesting.  It needs to be perfect or people won’t follow it.  What if I pick the wrong thing?  I came up with one idea after another, and it was never quite right.  It’s been three weeks, and I haven’t gotten past the brainstorming stage.  This very same thing happened when I wanted to sew a cover for me pillow.  I couldn’t move past picking the fabric, too many colors, too many types of materials.  It seems to be a problem for so I sought out this group.”
My friend puts down her cup and leans forward.  “Let me see if I understand you correctly.  You joined a group because you procrastinate and cannot make a decision.”
“Correct.”
My friend shakes her head in exasperation.  “Okay.  You’re right you do have problems.”

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