FLIRT OR NOT A FLIRT...THAT IS THE QUESTION

I am a homewrecker. Or so some friends, rather unflatteringly, have taken to calling me. Recently, and let me add, UNBEKNOWNST to me, I hit on a married man. Or so he claims.

In my defense, though, I had no idea (A): that he was married, or (B): that I was even flirting to begin with. Am not as much of a floozy as I would have you all believe. Have not sunk so low as to resort to picking up married men. Though AM, I am sorry to say, sad enough to be preying on youngsters—as will be described in a later posting. Wait for the raunchy details, though will be mostly g-rated for my youngest fans. Anyway, shall I back up and explain my side of the story?

The scene was this: I was meeting up with some friends who (inexplicably) had decided to attend a dance recital. As this was completely inconsistent with the types of activities that I would normally associate with these dynamic and fun-loving sorts, I should’ve known that I was entering the Twilight Zone on that particular evening. The lovely friends arrived, with their friend, the Mollusk, in tow. Having met the Mollusk only once before, about five years prior, I hardly knew what to expect. A small part of me was resentful for having to share the lovely friends with a stranger, but the Mollusk was surprisingly as fabulous as self, and was quickly welcomed with open arms into my dysfunctional family. Encounter was an unexpected, but pleasant surprise, and I was delighted when 411 was exchanged and promises to send articles were made (by me).

Not surprisingly, Mollusk’s card was immediately sucked into the black hole that exists in all of my handbags, probably going to the parallel universe where missing socks and keys go to die. Eventually, though, it resurfaced and I sent along the promised articles. We renewed our mutual admiration society over email and I continued to delight in my newly-found friend. Wit and clever banter flowed like honey wine, and I very quickly decided that he must become my new confidante re: male fuckwit behavior. As he was as adept at flirting as I was, he struck me as a fellow life form, part of the same species, if you will, and therefore, be able to wax poetic on a variety of topics in a clever and lighthearted manner. And given that he had heard a full on gush session about JS, not to mention whoring adventures in Chi-town, I would never have thought that my feline friendliness would be mistaken for flirtation.

Now, I will say this only once to set the record straight: I WAS NOT FLIRTING WITH THE MAN. At least not deliberately. I was only being my natural irresistible, minx-like self, and he, I thought, was playing along. Alas, when he wrote to me stating, “I hope you are not flirting with me. Cause I am married and happy”, I was completely flummoxed and thrown for a loop. Yet again, someone had misread the signals.

Given that I am a naturally effusive person by nature, I don’t realize the clear line between flirtation and friendliness. But, in this case, I can honestly say that I WAS NOT FLIRTING. Perhaps someone, namely an undersexed, and Bollywood-infused teenage boy in India, would probably misinterpret my playfulness as being an unequivocal sex invite. But I thought that the cosmopolitan, swinging Mollusk GOT me, and thus, would realize that it was just ME to be this way. Unfortunately, he is not the first to make the mistake.

I wonder though, when did flirting become tantamount to adultery? I always thought that flirting was a pastime, or, as in my case, a sort of developed talent, like pottery or playing tennis. I always thought it was the sort of game everyone could play: married, single, celibate…a little harmless flirting between consenting adults never hurt anyone. Especially where BOTH parties knew it was just a game. I will say this, as well. Mollusk is a worthy adversary in the game of flirtation; he was as much responsible for my ease and comfort in conversing with him. Talented though he is, he is clearly no match for me. Minxes like me eat shellfish like him for brekky…

Also, I am usually not coy about letting people know that I like them (except in one case-where my idiotic behavior is a dead giveaway), and I will flirt mercilessly to get whomever I want. Trust me, I have an exceptional batting average, and it is one of the few things that I am truly proud of. It IS rare that I pull out all the stops, because it just isn’t fair. Poor things wouldn’t stand a prayer. Yes, I AM that good. I am the fuckin’ YODA of flirtation. A true Jedi master.

So why pursue the gentleman in question, you ask, if not for purely carnal purposes? Now, for those of you who know me, there is one thing that will always get me, be it man, woman, child, or dog: and that is good conversation. In the past, as painful as it was, I have passed up on several delish prospects (and they were truly fine specimens!) for the simple fact that I could have had better conversations with a bowl of rice krispies. If you can’t talk the talk—then you have to walk.

For me, the cherry-on-top in any friendship is to be able to talk, laugh, even cry with someone endlessly, and for the friends in question to constantly surprise you with their brilliance. All of the lovely friends are exceptionally gifted conversationalists, and are tremendously fabulous, brilliant, and kind people to boot. So, when I find worthy individuals to pull into the fold, I snatch them up like a Punjabi grabbing drumsticks at an all-you-can-eat chicken buffet. So-it is not surprising that I was thoroughly enchanted by the mollusk. In the above-mentioned capacity, he was fan-bloody-tastic. Not to mention, he thought I was DY-NO-MTE! And a girl can always use an ego boost, can’t she?

I will say this for him, though, if I were to go and hit on a married man, I probably couldn’t have done better. Mollusk is a clever, witty, adorable, geek-to-chic dynamo who does his desi best at being a scientist/artist. He was worth the Hester Prynne comparisons, the big red letter “H” I am now forced to wear, identifying me as a homewrecker, and the embarrassment that my silly ways have (yet again) caused confusion. Sigh. No harm meant, Mrs. Mollusk, I swear. And you’ve got a good piece of shellfish there, and don’t worry—I’m allergic.