Excuse me, I thought I was flirting.
by Erica DawsonFreud, the original super freak, describes sex as anatomical transgressions of the bodily regions destined for the sexual union. Down and dirty. Sometimes we flirt to reach this destination. But sometimes we flirt because we’re bored, want attention, or because some of us are just flirtatious, no harm no foul.
Let’s be real, though. Unmistakable flirting almost always translates to I want to hit that. Now. Unmistakable flirting goes straight to the point, like a rap song.
In “Fuckin’ Problems,” Kendrick Lamar brags, Girl! I know you want this D!
(Actually, I don’t.)
In “Love Me,” Lil Wayne explains, My dick feels like morphine.
(Pretty sure it doesn’t.)
Pop is full of similarly direct, similarly dubious examples.
Fergie, in the Black-Eyed Peas’“Just Can’t Get Enough,” croons, I’m addicted, want to jam inside your love.
(What?)
Aything Ke$ha says.
(Gross.)
All of this just isn’t my style. There’s no mystery in the unmistakable. Too obvious. So blunt. Philosopher and theorist Walter Benjamin talks about how every passion borders on the chaotic. There’s nothing wrong with the chaos of keeping someone guessing. I like to get all hard to pin down. So I prefer mistakable flirting, probably because it’s the flirting I’m good at. I call it double entendre innuendo insinuation.
It’s not good double entendre, though, like when Mel Brooks says, The only thing we don’t have a god for is premature ejaculation … but I hear that it’s coming quickly. It’s not even real innuendo — at least not innuendo like Shakespeare’s Laertes talking about Ophelia in Hamlet: And in the morn and liquid dew of youth / contagious blastments are most imminent.
While insinuation suggests craftiness, there’s no craft here. Here’s how it goes: When someone says, So when I drove through the red light, I interrupt with my best sexy voice and say, I bet you did drive through that red light. Someone says, I’ve got to get home. I have a lot of work to do. I come back with, Yeah, I bet you do have a lot of work to do.
Bet and do or did get all the stress. I work the verbs.
Yes, it’s bad and no one’s getting laid, at least not anytime soon. It’s the opposite of Eminem’s So bad, I’m so good (that I’m so bad). Mournful. No grace, no game.
I hope there’s something cute about being this bad at flirting — something endearing about having no skills. I’m like a basketball player who, at the line, throws an air ball every time. Aw, right? First, a guy will think, oh honey, that’s just sad. Then, that’s kind of sweet. The game may go long, but maybe I’ll work my way through all the terms of endearment and find myself at something as bold as chocolate deluxe.
If I don’t know what I’m doing, maybe he’ll show me. In my stupid utterances, maybe he’ll interrupt me to get my attention. Maybe he’ll say my name.