Touchey Feeley
One of the people at work was asking me questions about the products that we install. He was asking for information and we kind of struck up a conversation.
This guy is what I call a ‘touchy’, one of those people that has to reach out and touch a person that he is interacting with, as if to reaffirm that he is actually talking to a real person instead of one of a plethora of imaginary friends. I, on the other hand, am not a touchy person. When I was a child and went to bed at night, I shook my mothers hand after the age of six.
I noticed that as the conversation progressed, the touches became more frequent. After a while, his hand began to linger a bit. Shortly after that, there was a gentle squeeze thrown in. He began to take every opportunity to make physical contact, each one lasting a fraction of a second longer than the last. I am not sure if he was politely hitting on me or of he was sizing me up as his next meal.
On the afternoon TV shows that prey on lonely women they will often tell you, “If it doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t.”
It did not feel right. It really did not feel right. My alarm bells were going off and sirens were going off in my head. Lights were flashing behind my eyes and I wanted to yell, “Keep your fucking hands off me you creepy bastard!”
I did not. I kept my cool. This man could cause a lot of needless confusion if he feels threatened. I did not get the feeling that he was hitting on me as much as the feeling that he is just a REALLY creepy individual that is in desperate need of something in his life.
I have no intention of being that something.
Unfortunately my imagination brought forth images of him marinating my flesh in a nice Italian dressing before throwing parts of me on the grill, or checking out if I have a proper amount of fat in order to make a good winter coat.
There are times that having a good imagination is not such a good thing.
This guy is what I call a ‘touchy’, one of those people that has to reach out and touch a person that he is interacting with, as if to reaffirm that he is actually talking to a real person instead of one of a plethora of imaginary friends. I, on the other hand, am not a touchy person. When I was a child and went to bed at night, I shook my mothers hand after the age of six.
I noticed that as the conversation progressed, the touches became more frequent. After a while, his hand began to linger a bit. Shortly after that, there was a gentle squeeze thrown in. He began to take every opportunity to make physical contact, each one lasting a fraction of a second longer than the last. I am not sure if he was politely hitting on me or of he was sizing me up as his next meal.
On the afternoon TV shows that prey on lonely women they will often tell you, “If it doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t.”
It did not feel right. It really did not feel right. My alarm bells were going off and sirens were going off in my head. Lights were flashing behind my eyes and I wanted to yell, “Keep your fucking hands off me you creepy bastard!”
I did not. I kept my cool. This man could cause a lot of needless confusion if he feels threatened. I did not get the feeling that he was hitting on me as much as the feeling that he is just a REALLY creepy individual that is in desperate need of something in his life.
I have no intention of being that something.
Unfortunately my imagination brought forth images of him marinating my flesh in a nice Italian dressing before throwing parts of me on the grill, or checking out if I have a proper amount of fat in order to make a good winter coat.
There are times that having a good imagination is not such a good thing.
posted by MizfiTroll at 5:58 AM
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