is through his chest with an axe.This week I learned the word ' misandrist'.
It means 'men hating'.
I had thought that that was misogyny but it turns out that misogyny really only applies to hating women.
The word misandrist is rarely used any more because apparently no one hates men.
I don't hate men also.
In fact, it would be fair to say that a large number of my closest friends are men.
Which is not the same thing as saying 'some of my friends are black' because in truth many of my friends are gay.
So back to me being single, which is what we are actually talking about.
In the past 5 weeks I have been hit on more times than in my living memory.
By men.
Straight ones.
This probably has something to do with the fact that for the past 5 weeks I have spent more time in pubs and at parties than in the last 5 years.
It's cyclical.
In truth, unless I am working, my favourite nighttime position is curled up on a sofa watching either cooking shows or Criminal investigations depending on what time of the month it is.
When I do venture out, it's often with a group of friends I feel comfortable enough to be myself with and quite often ends well before pumpkin hour with the late night purchase of an overpriced tub of Hagan Daz at the local 7/11 and half an hour of the disappointingly misnamed Naked Chef.
My dancing on table top days are well behind me.
I am not sad.
My knee joints are not what they used to be- in spite of the horse tranquiliser sized glaucosomine tablets I shove down my gullet every morning - along with Omega 3, a couple of multi vits, some Evening Primrose, milk thistle for my poor old liver and the contraceptive pill.
Because I am an optimist.
The trouble with men and me, is that the ones who have made an approach in the last month or so are all just so fucking revolting.
As opposed to being revolting fucks which, as I have not actually fucked any of them, I can not in good faith quantify.
But there is a reason for that too.
If you are interested in a woman,gentlemen, - and here's a tip- try not to grab her face and all but drown her in slobber whilst depositing 4 inches of tongue into the back of her throat without so much as a "Hi, my name in Nico and I like your dress".
This actually happened to me , not once but THREE TIMES in one night.
The first time I was so shocked I was prepared to believe I had imagined it.
The second time I thought " perhaps I was too hasty, a bird in the hand etc etc etc"
And by the third time I was ready to call the police.
A mere 3 nights later I was approached by a chap whose opening gambit was to buy me a drink and then bore me to death with pictures of his favourite ice hockey team.
Woah, hold me back, my womb is on fire.
Hero number 3 was a muso, which is usually enough, but his " Hey babe, I've set the ground rules the next move is yours" coolness made me wonder if I was secretly being filmed for a reality show where men trapped in the 80's were brought into the future for a style makeover that involved an amount of bitch slapping.
Man, you are so hip and all that I may actually want to smash a chair into your face before ordering, and paying for, the next round.
Punter 4 - yes I told you, it's been a bumper month- was an old acquaintance who spent half the evening reminding me of the mutual friends we have ( I can't stand any of these people so ba boooow) and the other half telling me how much money he earns.
Really? Is your penis actually THAT small. I had heard that from one of our mutual female friends but I thought she was lying.
Man 5 was also someone I had met before- in fact on an Internet date- and this unexpected reunion reminded me that I had given him a false phone number the first time around. I recall that he may have starred in his very own WAG blog about 18 months ago on account of him being a total douche that night also.
Let your no be no as they say in The Bible.
Mr 6, let's call him Granddad, was the final straw that made me reconsider my position on lesbianism.
There I am, minding my own business but being polite on a rooftop party somewhere in this vast city of old white men and their inflated egos when who should decide that I am the pick of the bunch but Rip Van Winkle himself.
Now, I know I am no oil painting.
I am 43, 20 pounds overweight and I dress like the 'Before' picture in a stylists advertising campaign but For Fucks Sake.
The offer of dinner at a mid range food chain and a pat on the hand is not going to make me fall on my back with my legs open at 180 degrees, I don't care how much you remember the war.
And I am not being ageist, the truth is that Pops was, without doubt, the MOST boring of a mind numbingly boring lot.
What is it about middle aged men that makes them think that the fact that they own a penis is enough for someone like me to share juices.
I. too, own a penis.
It's purple, about 5 inches long and takes double AA's.
I bought it 2 years ago at The Temple street markets.
We have adventures together.
I love it because it doesn't take more than 2 minutes to clean under a cold tap and never breaks wind in bed.
Ever.
Now I realise I may sound emasculating to some men, but honestly....I am open to approach as long as the approach does not involve you being amazed at how amazing you are and then expecting me to fall in line.
Great, you have a job.
Fantastic, you can afford to by me a drink.
Really, your penis can inflate?
Got anything else?
Ever thought to ask me about myself, for example?
Ever thought of inviting me to a museum?
Or a gallery opening?
Does the idea of fucking my mind interest you even nearly as much as the idea of motorboating my tits because I've seen what penises can do and it's pretty much a one trick pony where the ride lasts about 16 minutes- tops- and ends with some grunting, a wet patch and a score out of 10.
And quite frankly if your dismount is anything like your run up, I may just save us both some effort and buy your ex-wife a martini.
We both owe her at least that much.
