Prolific II

Continued from this post

She sat within (very) clear view of the only decent-looking men in the room, revealing an indecent amount of cleavage and heels. She felt she needed a drink after the night she’d just had, so she stopped at the local pub on her way home.

After a few minutes of negotiation, she settled on a Cosmo with the waitress. Perhaps she would channel her inner Samantha with it, though in actuality she was craving the tea that she had left in her car from her just-aborted coffee date. However tea wasn’t going to help her set the proper tone and get her head in the game.

Hockey on one side of her, European football on the other, she felt (as usual) painfully out of place. Though more than one she noticed one of the men at the other table glancing at her. He looked vaguely familiar – perhaps from an avatar photo on one of the plethora of websites she frequented.

She saw two old-school video games to her right – “Golden Tees” and “Big Buck Hunter.” Very male. And more than a little hilarious with a pixellated moose shaking his antlers flirtatiously at her every few minutes. Possibly the most action she could expect to receive that night.

Why is it that all spots bars have such a love for bad 80’s music? “Out of Touch” blared from the speakers. She was beginning to take it as a personal attack. Was she out of touch? What was she doing there anyhow?

She kept adjusting the jacket she wore over her bustier – surreptitiously showing more cleavage without trying to seem too obvious about it. Again, she felt like a fraud – who was she to think that she was the kind of woman who could transform herself into a seductress? The kind of women to compel a man to approach her through sheer force of will?

She felt like a girl merely play-acting. Aspiring to womanhood. Painfully transparent to even the most casual of onlookers.

She felt a ridiculous urge to keep track of the times the men at the other table glanced her way. Surely it had to happen by accident or pure happenstance occasionally. How many glances equated to an intentional “checking out”? Who could she ask? She didn’t exactly advertise to her friends that she slutted herself up and frequented lounges as a social experiment.

An experiment to what end precisely? What did she hope to learn or accomplish? How to be sexy? How to find a man? She didn’t need anyone to tell her that this wasn’t really the optimal strategy for such an endeavour.

She suddenly remembered an idiotic reality show that she saw once training women on how to “date.” Apparently it was an “alluring” move to delicately rub one’s collarbone so…oh! One of the men at the other table did glance her way. Fascinating.

What makes a woman sexy? She strongly suspected that it almost entirely rested on confidence. A trait that she clearly did not possess in spades. She was also beginning to suspect that the glances in her direction were more likely focusing on the TV behind her.

Human” now blaring…

Do men really care that much about breasts and cleavage, or is that just an urban legend? She imagined Freud would have a lot to say about it. Perhaps as a reflection of man’s desire to return to the womb?

She rarely drank and found a few sips of her Cosmo had an affect. Not intoxicating yet, but certainly resulting in a feeling of…something. She wondered if it was horniness. A word she abhored, but under the circumstances it seemed rather apt.

Two young pups walked by, thoroughly dampening her heat. She found younger men completely unappealing. She preferred to be the neurotic one in a relationship, and younger men far too frequently claimed that role for themselves.

She wondered suddenly if the men found her pitiable. Not mysterious and intriguing because she sat alone writing, but rather pathetic and sad. Or maybe she was simply projecting her own insecurities onto them. Probably. But the doubt lingered, shaking her already tenuous grip on confidence and allure.

It was a neighbourhood pub, across from the last place she tried. Mores groups of the right kind of men came in than last time. Comforting. She may be able to try this place again. She felt safe close to hope – like she knew what to expect.

Spice Girls: Stop

The drink was meant to be a prop, but she found it was rapidly being depleted. Mysterious. Fortunate that she could walk home if need be.

She found herself paying more and more attention to the hockey game. Edmonton was playing Phoenix. Surely this was a sign that it was time to go. She’d been there nearly an hour – she felt she’d taken all she could from the experience. And at $8.00 a martini, she felt she’d made her contribution. Until next time…


She was told to “fake it till you make it.” But she had no idea how the faking it even began. What did such an act entail? She was determined to learn.

The problem was, she didn’t even know how to fake it. What did confidence look like? What about a proper flirtation and coy gesture? Would she even recognize them if she saw them? In order to pull something off even awkwardly, she had to know what precisely she was even attempting to act like….

She dressed only mildly risque for her first time out as she really didn’t expect much. Hell, she didn’t expect this experiment to ever come to anything at all, and wouldn’t have been surprised if it ended after this one evening.

Her dominant sense of propriety was waging epic battles with her wanton desire to prove that she at least had the potential to be slutty – even if she never actually followed through.

She was more than a little prissy in real life. Always dressing properly, and acting as she should. This was mostly out of the fear of being judged harshly behind her back – she lived her life concerning herself with the opinions of others. Rarely did she ever act or speak without reviewing it from a thousand different angles in her head beforehand.

She viewed this all as a social experiment- with the requisite anthropological research to be done to start. First: observe the behaviour of the natives in their natural environment. In this case? A lounge.

She wore a low-cut black top and black shortish skirt. The lace stocking with the backseam and the red high boots were what made her stand out in any way. That paired with the ruby red lipstick sent off a different kind of message. The outfit implied something without outright declaring it.

Maybe she was there for the taking. Maybe she just had a flirty sense of style. Straddling the line, but still safe. As always.

She perched herself at a high table off to the side so she could observe the whole room. She debated about ordering her standard diet coke, but decided to go all out and order a glass of wine instead. A prop really. And a blush wine of course, because really she hated the taste and could only handle it if it was just shy of Kool-Aid flavoured.

Cheesy 80’s music was playing. Not even the songs you normally hear – throwbacks to another, less cynical era. She felt like dancing. That would perhaps get her some attention, but she was far too timid to ever seriously consider it.

This was a neighbourhood bar. Too many common young rowdies in large groups. Not precisely what she was really looking for, but she was too timid to stray further for her first time out. This would do for now.

So she watched.

Groups of man-boys being loud and clearly finding themselves much cleverer and funnier than they actually were. Mostly harmless and watching the TV anyhow. Some kind of sport – hockey. Beer at the table. Not worth her time or ink.

Groups of women unwinding after work. Giggling together. Looking either hatefully at the pencil-thin waitresses, or admiringly at other women’s shoes. They clung desperately and obviously to the hope that someone, Mr. Right maybe would notice them and sweep them off their feet on the spot. There. At the neighbourhood bar. It would be laughable if it weren’t so sad and common.

She was watching for something specific. Something that she wasn’t supposed to see. An intimate private moment that should occur unnoticed by most patrons. Something that you would only catch if you were looking for it, as she was.

She wanted to see the seduction. The moment when a huntress catches sight of her prey. When Artemis finds her ultimately willing victim and reels him in, powerless before her. She wanted to learn from this woman. To see what it was that made her so confident and special and so exquisitely irresistible.

It seemed impossible that such a moment would occur in such a prosaic locale. But perhaps she might find some other comic interludes that she could use as well. Perhaps a reverse how-to?

To be clear, she wasn’t looking to spy or be intrusive – she was merely wanting to learn. What made these women different? Was it in their words? Their look? Their walk, or their smile? She knew that this wasn’t something that could necessarily be taught or absorbed, but perhaps there was something she could take away from her observations. Something that might resonate, and change her in some subtle way for the better.

She hated herself for her caution and silent observations. She wasn’t a part of the world, simply looking at it. Wanting desperately to become something that she wasn’t – a huntress like the women she so envied. But more than that, she yearned for what becoming such a being meant – that she was wanted, coveted, thought of in a completely carnal and deliciously inappropriate way. She wanted an escape from the mundane mediocrity of her life. The constant self-censorship and prissiness. The never ending parade of self-doubt and unrelenting concern about propriety and so-called professionalism. She felt trapped in a suffocating world of her own construction. No one was judging her – not really, yet she couldn’t escape from the tyrannical voice inside her head haranguing her to care about mundanities such as skirt length and email language.

She wanted to be the kind of woman who could induce a man to follow her with just a look. The kind of woman who wouldn’t hesitate to put her tongue in a strange man’s mouth. To “accidentally” rub her finger across his chest. His leg. His crotch. To watch his cock harden in response to the barest whisper of her touch. To be the kind of woman whose body compels men to stare after her – without regard for subtlety or coyness.

She occasionally dreamed of running away to another life – one where no one knew her, and where she could be as wild and irreverent as she chose. The thought of such freedom was simultaneously intoxicating and terrifying – seemingly coaxing her to bite into its fruit.

Incapable of taking such a leap, she chose sublimation. She channeled her frustrations into writing and social experiments. Thrilling by her standards, but tame on most other people’s scales of such matters.

She was done, she had taken all she could get out of this evening.

The bar-tender may have flirted with her on her way out – hard to tell. She found it hard to trust such a thing, as they tend to do that for the tips. But he hadn’t served her, so there was no reason. When she got into her car, all she saw in the rearview mirror were tired eyes. Impossible that she could have thought that she looked OK, and flirt-worthy. She had worked a long week, and it showed all over her face.

She lasted an hour and a half in the bar. Not bad for the first time out, and she accomplished quite a bit in a side project- an unexpected benefit. Being at home always provides a plethora of distractions from such things. Perhaps she’ll find that these forays out into the world might be less painful and dull than she feared. If at the very least, she finished up her other work, then anything else that transpired on the actual social-experiment-side would simply be a bonus.