Quote:
Originally posted by sebastian_dangerfield
I never understood people getting mad if a gay person hits on them. I've been hit on by gay men. I've also had gay men compliment me on my clothes. As to the first, I think its great. Gay men I know are really looks conscious, so if you get hit on by a gay dude, that's a valifdation that you probably look pretty good at that moment (provided he's not one of those slovenly gay guys). As to the second, if a gay dude admires your threads, you've done well. Then, of course, my wife tells the gay dude that she picked out the clothes, so I lose any gay style cred I might have gained.
The only bad kind of "getting hit on" is not getting hit on.
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I've been hit on a number of times by women. Most of the times weren't overly flattering because the women hitting on me were my drunk (bi and/or lesbian) friends. There was this one time though... I consider it the most flattering hit on to date, but it likely wasn't all that unusual.
I was pretending to be a bartender at a bar where I was a regular. Basically pretending to be a bartender means I was behind the bar, making drinks and talking to patrons because it was a slow night and the guy who ran the place wasn't one of those responsible sorts (he likely was happy I was helping out, so he could sneak off to do blow occasionally). The cool thing about pretending to be a bartender is that you don't have to do any cleaning or menial labor. So, anyway, back to the story. I was pretending to be a bartender one night and this attractive couple came into the bar. There were only like 4 or 6 people in the whole place. So they sat down and I was chatting them up, as (good) bartenders are likely to do. After a couple of drinks, they asked me what I was doing later. It was clear from the way the conversation headed that they wanted me to come home with them. The woman was particularly interested. Alas, I now have to tell the men of the FB that I didn't go with them. Ultimately I was more interested in the cute, way too young for me (in those pre-Demi/Ashton days) Jelly Belly salesman (I kid you not - he drove a Jelly Belly mobile from town to town dispensing candy to one and all) at the other end of the bar than I was in having my first MFF experience. So I let ABBA and her husband walk out of my bar that night. I'm sorry.
Post Script. I still have the business card for the Jelly Belly boy. We tried to hook up before he left town, but, alas, it was not meant to be. And now he is probably Coltrane-aged, so that window has closed. Sigh.
