You’re… Not Going to Prague
I run such a weird gambit of what I’m willing to tolerate from men. There is, of course, the famous Munich story, which I will briefly (I jest) share:
This American guy staying at my hostel in Munich glommed on to me with the death grip of a man who delusionally prays he’s going to get some. I don’t even really feel the need to describe him because it seems harsh, but also because he possessed a set of characteristics that would not had been so bad if they had not all occurred at the same time: sometimes the whole is more obnoxious than the parts.
So, anyway, he’s clearly putting the moves on me with all the finesse of a second grader (and I say this because at one point he actually shoved me off the path in some inexplicable mating ritual), but I know that he’s getting on a train in about two hours and I have somewhere to be in one hour, so I figure it’s not worth the hassle of having “The Conversation.”
Sadly, on the Metro back to Marienplatz he performs the leg plant - placing his hand firmly and clammily on the exposed part of my thigh. But again, all I have to do is get out of the train station and we’ll have to part ways. Which we do, and I merrily take my walking tour through 1940s Munich.
And then I’m walking back to the hostel because I have a train that evening. And who do I see but fucknut, and the conversation goes as follows:
Me: “…Hi Jeremy… did you miss your train?”
Him: “No, I’ve decided not to go to Austria!”
Me:”Oh really? Where are you going instead?”
Him:”I’m going to Prague. [beat] With you!”
Great. You’d think my stunned silence would speak volumes, but he cuts it short by blundering straight into asking me to dinner. I drop the none to subtle hint that I meant to meet Jim from Manchester for drinks before my train - which was, incidentally, true, I was meant to collect my bags and then hopefully bag him; I just can’t lay off the English - I actually say this TWICE to Jeremy in the ensuing minutes. He continues to stare blandly back at me.
We get to the hostel, collect our bags, and I kind of realize that if I just keep being nice to spare his feelings I’m going to wind up having a horrible time in Prague, and probably married off to him in a shotgun wedding, listening to him talk about his spate of childhood dogs for the next 25 years until I bash his head in with a bat and run off to Reno.
I don’t know if this is what actually crossed my mind, but now we have to have “The Conversation.” Which I hate - I have actually on more than one occasion just waited for an on-their-way-out lover to dump me because then no one gets hurt - I’m pleased as punch and they get to feel like they really just dumped the hell out of someone. So it’s awkward, but I’m firm. His only real reaction to this is, “Wow, you’ve got some grit to your sandpaper.”
I now realize that is exactly what he didn’t want in a woman. So anyway, we go our separate ways, but I see him later on the train, and I’m pretty sure he was planning on sitting in my cabin with me. I shot him a look, and then also shot one to the Taiwanese guy that was presently in my cabin, and Jeremy finally fucked off.
This whole long story is actually to tell a different one - of how I now react to pushy men back in the good ol’ US of A. With Brits and Aussies, you can just be like, “Right mate, fuck off.” And they’re like, “Right.” Here it’s very different though, at least with straight men. “No” always means “Maybe” or even possibly “Yes” meaning that it’s very difficult to get your point across. Sometimes I still try for subtlety, but sometimes I don’t.
For instance, we were out at a late license last weekend, and this guy - who actually introduced himself as “Mr Big” (he was seriously like 5′5″) - kept talking to my friend Scott and me. Except when he’d wander over, he’d feel the need to put his arm around my waist. I removed it the first time. But there it was again a few minutes later, to which I responded, “You’re touching me again. That needs to not happen,” in what I’m sure was my best impression of Chris Kelly.
Unfortunately, this story does not have a satisfying conclusion. Jim from Manchester got his replacement passport in the mail that morning and caught the only train to wherever it was he was going before I could seal the deal. Call me.
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