Marissa Duke

"What's a girl like you doing with a computer like that?"

"Excuse me?"

I look over at the slimy little man suddenly squatting by my chair. A tacky, striped shirt covers his pale body and tiny glasses perch before a pair of beady eyes. His hair is greased back and almost hidden by a beanie cap. Didn't those go out of style in, like, the nineties?

My friend Elle and I exchange bemused glances over our coffee cups. Here I am, minding my own business in this hip Wicker Park café, smoking and typing away on my Powerbook (which, by the way, I bought because it's tiny and silver, not because I know anything about computers). What is this sleazebag doing? What right has he to interrupt my work? I'm fuming as hot as the coffee in front of me. When a writer is on a roll, don't get in her way.

Oh wait, now I get it. He's trying to pick me up.

Poor guy.

Let him down gently, Marissa.

You've got to give him credit for spouting an original line. He even read me well enough to exploit my fondness for all things nerdy. But I thought my body language and expressionless responses would give him a hint. He seems undeterred by the cold shoulder I keep forcing between us. And he won't shut up.

"You don't see many beautiful women with powerful computers," he continues. "It's pretty sexy." He's moved a little bit closer.

"Okay..." I keep staring at the screen.

"So what are you, a grad student or something?"

"No...undergrad." I keep my responses abrupt, not wanting to incite further conversation.

"I'm 34. But that's okay, I like younger women."

Yeah I bet you do.

"I guess I should give up right now. You wouldn't like a guy like me..."

Now he gets it! An awkward giggle is the only noise that escapes my lips.

"So what do you study?"

"English." This guy does not quit!

"Do you want to go over there and talk on the couch? It will be more comfortable than me kneeling on the floor."

Finally I find my opportunity to end the exchange. "Actually, I've got to finish my work here..."

"I think it's flattering," Elle says when I repeat the entire encounter over fresh cups of coffee. "I love it when guys hit on me." The greaser left not ten minutes ago after asking for my number. ("Well, I'm here a lot. You'll probably see me," I responded noncommittally. He forced a hug on me and shuffled out the door like a naughty child sent to time-out.)

Stirring Sweet 'n` Low into the mug, I look around. Plenty of attractive men occupy the small square tables and shabby-chic couches, but they all seem too busy with their books and cigarettes to notice me.

"Why can't the ones who approach me be guys like...like him," I gesture to a lanky youth in a Dartmouth sweatshirt, "or like that one over there," I point to the scruffy barista whose cheeks dimple when he smiles.

"When an ugly guy approaches an attractive girl, he has nothing to lose. He's already hit rock bottom; he might as well hit on the hot chick," Elle explains.

I do not take it as a compliment when sleazy men ask for my number. The attention strikes some as flattering, but it insults me. Did the 34-year-old really expect I would go out with him? I'm a smart girl, people say I'm attractive: I would like to think I could do better than this man who needs to wash his hair, redo his wardrobe, and take a lesson in social etiquette.

Before you label me shallow, I might as well tell you that I like ugly men, at least, men who aren't handsome in a traditional sense. I went out with the "hot" guys for a while. Benjamin was the first guy I dated in college. He was the tall, wholesome quarterback on the football team--completely all-American in every sense of the word, from his blond hair and his blue-eyes to his Southern accent. Girls seem awestruck when they find out about us. This year a group of little freshmen came up to me and all in one breath demanded details: What's he like? Is he nice? How long did we date? How long is his...well, you know?

I smiled, polite as always, and said that we only went out a few times, that I didn't get the chance to know him that well. But the truth is, he just bored me. He thought he could get by on looks alone. He'd invite me over, we'd hang out with his team watching football and playing drinking games. No personality lurked behind those blue eyes, and while I too like to play with pretty things, I would never date a guy who couldn't hold my attention longer than the commercial breaks.

Looks aren't everything, but you can never date someone you're just not attracted to, whether his main draw be his arms, his sense of humor or his passion for bicycling. I'm attracted to the most random things. Jay, for the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Austin, for his innocence. Brandon for the way he passionately explained math theories too complex for me to ever understand. But an unremarkable predator lurking by my side strikes the wrong chord. He mistook my awkward geniality for interest, and when I had to turn him down, he left me feeling dirty and...really just plain mean.

"Had about enough?" a voice says as I pack up my aphrodisiac of a computer. This time it comes from a lean twentysomething lounging on the couch.

"Yeah." I grin. He smiles back and two deep crevasses dimple his cheeks. There's immediate chemistry and a more natural dialogue ensues.

"By the way, you have amazing legs," he blurts out when I stand to leave.

So it's a line I've heard before, but originality isn't everything. Plus, there's something to be said for just telling the truth. (2005-09-20)

Also by Marissa Duke

The Agony and the Ecstasy
So apparently guys don't like to be written about in magazines
(2005-09-06)

The Agony and the Ecstasy
I love kissing and I love sex, but merging mouth and genitals makes as much sense as putting ketchup on ice cream
(2005-08-09)

The Agony and the Ecstasy
Refusing to let men use us, we use them. For their penises
(2005-07-26)

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