Fearful Flirtation

I couldn't help staring at him whenever I thought he wasn't looking in my direction. He was handsome well-built, probably tall, (I couldn't be sure, because he was sitting.) with dark hair, pale skin and a sculpted face with intense dark eyes that attracted me, even though I only glimpsed them momentarily. I wasn't sure of the pick-up protocol at the Borders coffee shop, but my usual fears or meeting strange men were already kicking in; AIDs, date rape, miscellaneous forms of abuse. It must have been a lot easier in the sixties', when guys didn't give you a fatal disease, or kill you when you said no.

One of my girl friends at New York University told me about Borders. She said that she met some nice guys there. I was a fairly goodlooking young woman, tall, shapely, athletic, with short blonde hair, blue eyes, and I was always well-dressed. My problem was that I was burdened with large breasts. I knew why that brought undeserved attention from the wrong kind of men; low-lifes had been coming on to me since I was fourteen. But there should have been nice guys out there with only two hands, who were willing to look past my breasts at the real me. I just hadn't been very lucky.

A succession of bad relationships had turned me into a nervous doe, ready to flee at the slightest sign of aggression, and there were always signs. My last relationship had become real ugly and the seemingly nice guy quickly became a monster, hitting me when I wouldn't do what he wanted. After I broke off with him he stalked me for weeks. I lived in constant dread that he would do something terrible to me. He finally evaporated, but I still had trouble sleeping and kept trying to grow eyes in the back of my head. I wasn't ready for a lesbian relationship, though N.Y.U. seemed to specialize in extra curricular opportunities. I was a little out of step with many of my classmates. I really wanted a man.

I sensed him looking at me and felt a flush warm my body. I sneaked a peek and yes, he was staring at my breasts. As we made eye contact, he shifted position so I could see the bulge of his crotch. He was hot, no doubt of that, but he was too aggressive for me. Did he think I would respond just because he spread his legs? I would, if I dared. But I was too afraid of what else he might be offering. I slipped on my coat, picked up my books and fled, a panicky animal urgent to escape the hunter. Maybe there was a safe way to meet a nice guy, but I hadn't found it. If I couldn't get my nerve up to ask around the dorm and face the sister's scorn, I had run out of other options. I just had to decide which was worse; being an object of ridicule, or being lonely.

Gary Beck's recent fiction has appeared in Enigma, Dogwood Journal, EWG Presents , Nuvein Magazine, Babel, Vincent Brothers Review, L'Intrigue Magazine, The Journal, Short Stories Bimonthly, Bibliophilos and many others. His poetry has appeared in dozens of literary magazines. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Press and 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press. A collection of his poetry Days of Destruction is being published by Skive Press. His plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have been produced Off-Broadway. He is a writer/director of award-winning social issue video documentaries.

Email: Gary Beck

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