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“All He ever does is talk directly to my boobs,” so many girls wail to me.

“Oh Boo-Fucking-Hoo,” I respond. “At least you have boobs for Him to be distracted by. Thanks to my Nine-Year-Old-Boys-Body, I have had to develop something called a P-E-R-S-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y to keep Him interested.”

 

Without wit, a keen memory for ‘Star Wars’ quotes and ability to balance a spoon on my nose, any flirting I would want to occur with a boy would go bust long before the girl with the double D’s.

 

But there gets to a point in every conversation with a boy when I start to picture him naked.

Why? Because no matter how pretty, drunk, loose or adventurous someone may appear, they can often be boring. But no one is boring when they are naked. In fact, everyone is better naked. 

 

He may be listening to everything I say. But I am flexing his pec’s to the tune of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and trying to block out His voice. 

“Stop, you’re wrecking it,” I want to say. 

 

Sometimes I tare off His clothes right before he starts speaking, because I want to live in ignorant bliss that he is a Naked Mute.

Sometimes it is after he has said his name, age and detailed his ex-girlfriend and “why she is such a crazy whore”.

Other times, any mention of the words “hub caps”, “ecstasy” or “Pope Benedict” will make me undress him hypothetically (and quickly) and pretend to do things to him while my eyes are glazed over and he continues to ramble on about… I have no idea what. I have never remained listening to that point.

 

Last week, my friend tried to set me up with a guy.

This happens to me frequently: once you make one loud declaration in favor of sex, people soon believe “breathing” to be your only prerequisite.

“No,” I often protest. “I actually have to be attracted to the guy.”

“Pfft. Really?”

“I do!” I stamp my feet/inhale harder/start picturing him naked. “It just so happens that I have been attracted to many people. Some I have slept with. And many others I haven’t.”

(Aside: Sometimes, I find that there are so many attractive boys in the world that it makes me wonder why anyone would be religious/a lesbian/live in Tasmania).

 

The particular boy I was being Sextrothed to was, for all intents and purposes, absolutely stunning. I could tell he had a completely lickable body (I can tell these things. It is one of my talents. The rest of the talents come in handy as a result of this observation). He also had the kind of eyes that you would actually enjoying having attached to your upper torso region.

 

Physically, he was perfect.

 

I was pushed in his general direction (Read: Thrown down on a chair with a scotch and cigarette) to flirt, drink and win him over with wit, C3PO impersonations and balancing a spoon on my nose.

 

He told me his name. It was a nice name. He was still wearing pants in my subconscious.

He told me his age. I mentally ripped off his top button.

He told me about his degree. I buttoned the pants back up.

He told me about his week. “I did the best ecstasy pill EVA (!)”.

The pants were off. Thrown across the bar. His shirt was ripped. I was wearing his shoes as sound-proof ear muffs.

 

He told me a story about ecstasy (I believe) and how he stayed awake for thirty hours (I think) and how he climbed a tree (whoopee-fucking-do). I watched him flex in a much more impressive hyper-reality until it was polite enough for me to leave.

Twinkle Twinkle Littler Star, How I wonder how big you are…

 

Picturing someone naked in conversation (or staring at Her boobs) can often be the World’s Greatest Time Saver. You get to see (read: imagine) The Goods while finding out if He/She is the most boring human being on the planet.

No one gets hurt. No one gets embarrassed. And, most importantly, no one gets disappointed.

 

When I was thirteen, with glasses, braces and bad skin, I made some boys laugh with a joke outside a math class (or similar). From that day forward, they started paying me slightly more attention. (Read: They knew my name).

“Right,” I realized at such a tender age, when all of my friends were getting boobs and I was still concave and shopping in the Little Girls department, “I have to make them laugh.”

It was probably the single most important lesson of my life (along with ‘Never Wear Pleather’): Boobs will come, Boobs will go, Boobs will fall, But you can actually put in effort to become more interesting.

 

After spending another night with people who will only ever be exciting in my mind, I started to wish that more people bothered to win everyone over with their personality. 

I left the very pretty drug user to sit and retell his story to the girls who had their boobs falling out of their shirts. I strolled mindlessly through the bar, somewhat desperate to get more scotch, picturing all the boys naked as I moved.

“Um! Excuse me!”

A girl jumped back and I came back to reality. 

I had run my face directly into her Double D’s.