Women Are Scary.

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I mean women are really, really scary.

As in, there are bunnies in car headlights that look more suave than I do when faced with a beautiful woman.

I have a confession to make. I’m really bad at talking to women. I don’t mean bad at flirting with them, or hitting on them. I am. But I don’t get that far. I cannot make any conversation whatsoever with a woman I like. I get all nervous. Really nervous. Quiet and silly and stupid. And I feel like they know exactly what is going on in my mind when I look at them. Its not even sexual. My brain has not yet developed the ability to think of women sexually. I mean, I would like to, you know… But I can barely talk to a woman. Kindly follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

A sneak peek at my brain when talking to a lady I like:

She’s so nice. I mean she’s really nice. I should say something complimentary. Or smart. I should say something! Erm, what about: I think your dress is pretty? Oh that’s a shit thing to say. What a materialist, objectifying comment. She’ll not respect you with horrible sentences like that. What should I say? Oh god, oh god, you took too long. She’s looking at you. She knows you like her. Stop looking at her eyes. Stop looking at her hair. Stop looking at her! Don’t ignore her, don’t be rude. She’s so nice. Oh god. She knows – she knows what you’re thinking! She knows you’re gay – she’s gay too but you’re terrible. And gay. She doesn’t want you, you fool! You can’t even talk to her! Run! Run away, run away, run away!

That’s about it really. On a loop.

Its a good job I’m horrible at conversation, because it means I rarely get to asking anyone out. And I suck at asking women out. Its done with very little finesse. Think: blurting out “Can we get coffee please?!” during a conversation about improv comedy, or “Other locations of cultural interest are available – if you would like to go to one together?” when discussing the British Museum. I have genuinely used that sentence to ask out a woman.  Ugh. It worked. But then that means we have to go on a date.

Getting the date is almost a hollow victory. I genuinely don’t know what to do on dates with women. Its a designated chunk of time in which to have (gulp) extended one-on-one conversation with a woman I fancy. I’m a horrible bundle of nerves. Getting through the date without declaring how scared I am is a win for me. If I don’t shout out “Oh my god, you’re the nicest thing ever!” over coffee, I think I deserve a fucking medal. Or a hug. I think I’d like a hug. Its exhausting.

I know what you’re thinking. But getting drunk does not make me more confident. Alcohol doesn’t help one bit. I was very drunk near a very beautiful and intelligent lady (who I know is a gay and was also drunk) the other night at a work trip to the pub. I managed to tell her I liked her dress before I realised I might be flirting with her like a normal lesbian. Got nervous. Promptly ran away. Well done.

I’m really not that good at this.

I am trying though – honest. I’m fighting The Incredible Urge To Run Away. I just need practice talking to women. Then maybe they won’t be so scary. Well. No. They’ll still be intimidatingly beautiful and intelligent and so much better than me at this. But I will try my hardest to appear calm in conversation.

For now, I’m just hoping my startled rabbit impression will work for someone, somewhere.

If that’s you, please get in touch. I’ll hide under my duvet for a week then totally email you back.

L x

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