Sometimes I amaze even myself. I know, that sounds either (1) arrogant or (2) not hard to do. It’s probably both, except I’m on about how spectacularly
dim I’ve been.
Ok, long story short: mate of mine mentioned how we really
really needed to catch up, and then proceeded to say that some time int week we should get together for dinner and then a pint. I said yeah, that sounds like a good idea, and left it at that. On the way home, other mate pointed out how the way this plan had been broached made it sound like an offer. A special offer. Like… dinner would not be the end of the evening.
Cue me, going ‘
but he’s just a mate’ and then Taxi Friend going ‘
well perhaps he’s not looking to be just your mate’.
So there I am, wondering why I didn’t see the signs, and then thinking (1) Adam the psychic was right, and (2) it wouldn’t go anywhere even if we did do something stupid after dinner. (But, just fert record? I don’t think he
did mean it like that. I think he meant as a ‘just mates’ thing.)
Thing is, if someone else had told me this story, I would have leapt to conclusions, too. About him being a man and what he’d meant by it, I mean. If it were anyone else telling me this, I would have said the same. Blame it on my cynical nature, my pessimistic view of things, or my willingness to only believe the worst in people until I’m proven wrong. But there we are.
So why don’t I see it myself? Why do I have to try to see it from someone else’s shoes before I get it? I could blame a lot of things - childhood, school friends/politics, my own perverse perspective. What it comes down to is that I would no more think a bloke would make a pass at me than I would the girl sitting next to me on the bus. And by that I mean just because some blokes fancy birds doesn’t mean they hit on every single one they come into contact with, and just because a girl’s a lesbian doesn’t mean she’ll go for every girl she comes into contact with, either. The world just doesn’t work like that.
Maybe I’ve watched too much
Star Trek in my life, but I’ve always been surprised that people immediately leap on the first suitable person that they start working with, or come into contact with.
You mean people CAN’T work with someone WITHOUT fancying them? Dear gods - you have to be joking! I’ve had my fair share of blokes who I’ve only met through work, granted. But it’s never been immediate and it’s never been because they were under my nose and within lazy reach. Each one has had to grow on me almost painfully slowly - perhaps I’m just weird like that.
And living over here has certainly not helped. After having one (oh alright, two) Hongkers, I have to say I do actually prefer British blokes. It’s something in the elbows, in the way they carry themselves - they don’t simper along carrying their girlfriend’s handbag limply from their wrists. Ok, that’s a bit strong - but come on, name me three Hong Kong blokes who could hold a candle to the likes of Max Beesley or even Martin Freeman. Yes, Martin Freeman. He’s not huge, he’s not Mr Action Man, but fuck me, he knows how to strut and if he’s not written a book on quiet confidence and Ninja BAMFing then he bloody well should do. I could never go for him personally, even if he is left handed like me (he’s Tim! Wee Tim! And now purr wee Watson!) - he’s more like a Sam Tyler, Sam Winchester type. However, even he pisses over the attitude of most of the Hongkers I’ve met. Obviously I need to meet more. Or just go back to Blighty and stop moaning.
So what’s the point of all this? That I’m far too open-minded to notice when a bloke may or may not be going the nice, polite route. And that I can’t wait for
Mad Dogs to start later this week so I can perv. I mean watch. Yes. Watch closely.
And that’s all I have to moan about right now. I’m sure I’ll be back very soon.
Soopytwist.
Tags:
~
men ~
Hong Kong ~
Max Beesley ~
Martin Freeman
