The Over-Educated Nympho

As planned, today during my lunch hour Barbie and I went for hamburgers and a side of naked man. Dr. Smartypants was able to join us at the last minute, which only made me more nervous. Am I so hopeless that Barbie needed reinforcements?

I decided to write today’s post in the form of a quiz like what you’d find in a woman’s magazine (except, well, funny) so you can take a guess at how PROJECT: GET SOME ASS went this afternoon and then tally your score at the end. Consider it an attempt at vicariously enjoying the Fuck Yes/Fuck No game.

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First thing this morning I received an email from Hot Coworker, which surprised the hell out of me because I can’t remember the last time we said anything other than “hey” to each other.

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For the last several months I’ve had my eye on a certain guy who frequently comes into the office. He’s cute in that dorky-but-grew-out-of-it way. And he wears glasses. Sigh. I’m a total sucker for a guy in a good pair of glasses [see? girls do make passes at boys who wear glasses]. He also looks like a corporate version of The Russian, which is enough to get me so fired up I forget how to do math.

He had been coming around the office for a while before I found out he was a client. Dude. Our clients are never that young or hot. All this time I had been letting my sex eyes peek through and then it turns out he’s one of our biggest clients. Great. Way to be professional, you dumbass. Oh well, it’s not like we’ll ever actually speak to each other. Eye candy is eye candy and boy oh-oh-OH boy is he perrrrty.

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Going too long without sex makes me stupid. And now apparently when I do get sex, it makes me even more stupid. Like this morning at work it has been a real struggle to form simple sentences. I have resorted to the most basic of communication skills:

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DELETE! There goes Handsome Nerd’s phone number.

I really wish that cell phones made a gong sound every time you deleted someone. Sure my phone showed me a little trash can opening and closing, but that just doesn’t cut it. I would prefer some sort of small explosion. What a fantastic representation of complete dismissal! BOOOM! And little pieces of electronic carcass fall like snow in the light of 20/20 hindsight.

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It’s been a week and I’m still thinking about Handsome Nerd.

I want to see him again. I want to talk to him again. There are so many things I want to tell him in the light of undeniable sobriety.

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When I went apartment shopping a couple weeks ago, I met a really hot guy who happened to be the leasing agent at one of the complexes. I fancied him something fierce. When I decided to put a deposit down at another complex, I rejoiced by calling up Hot Leasing Agent to ask him out. And of course by “ask him out,” what I really mean is “please eat ME out.”

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Last night a bunch of the people at my office went to an industry lecture. During the reception I was shooting the shit with a couple coworkers. I wasn’t completely paying attention, so when Shitfuck Coworker asked me an industry question, I gave him an answer the likes of “seven” when the appropriate response would have been something more along the lines of “garlic chicken.” I do this a lot. Most people chuckle and that’s the extent of drawing attention to my dumbassery.

Not Shitfuck. He smirked and then proceeded to say, “So, you went to a smart people college, right? There are many very brilliant people who come out of that program, right? I mean, absolutely brilliant, and yet…” and he snickered at me.

I’m friends with the other two coworkers who were present at this conversation, and at this point I saw them exchange looks and then draw back in fear. They know I can go from normal to UFC in two seconds.

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I’m hoping it’s just my imagination, but Hot Coworker has been acting weird lately. Considering our very limited daily interaction of glances from across rows of cubicles and the occasional run-in over coffee, it would take a lot for me to be able to notice a change in his behavior.

Normally I don’t really notice him that much. This has gotten slightly more difficult since I moved to the new department, which brings me much much closer to Hot Coworker’s area (why couldn’t they have moved me to the second floor?! DAMNIT. Now I’m forced to bear witness to this fine piece of man-meat from a mere twenty feet away and then try to convince myself IwillnotjumphisbonesIwillnotjumphisbones.

Fortunately because of how our cubicles are arranged, he has to see the back of my head a lot more than I have to see the back of his head. Haha. Now how can I make the back of my head look more attractive so he can suffer in silence all the more painfully? Would it be like tototally obvious what I’m up to if I tied my ponytail with a lacy g-string?

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What does it take to turn a boy into a man, if it’s not living on his own and holding a real job, an important birthday, a magical kiss, or being bitch-slapped and told to grow the fuck up already?*

I’m just as interested in figuring out what does it take to turn a girl into a woman? Being able to weed out the boys from the men? If that’s the case then I still have a looong ways to go. I’ve only recently started figuring out the differences go far deeper than age or number of serious relationships on one’s dating resume.

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The other day I met my friend Dr. Barbie at a coffeeshop where she studied and I “worked” (meaning: I blatantly checked out all the nerdy-cute guys from behind the safety of a notebook). I may be a complete social retard in a bar, but the coffeeshop scene is where I’m in my element. Nerds, intellectuals, and closet freaks, all pumped with caffeine-scented pheromones.It was prime time so every table was taken. My eyes scanned across the room several times before deciding on one guy in particular, who was conveniently seated at two o’clock. He had a good view of me, I of him. A very nice view. Mmm. Diggity.

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It’s official. Handsome Nerd is standing dangerously close to the ledge of oblivion.

The dumbass. Um, which would be me, of course, for bothering to give him a second chance. He’s a dumbfuck, I’m just a dumbass, which is not nearly as shameful.

I told him to call me when he got back from New Orleans, which was a week ago. He didn’t call me, so I called and left a message a couple days ago. He never called back. The statute of limitations (on what? dumbassery? my pussy-fueled patience?) is up.

All this time he was standing at the ledge, looking down into the pit of despair. Clearly he would rather be there than in my bed underneath my naked body. Fine. Here baby, let me help.

–swift kick in the ass–

Aw, look, there he goes. Down, down, down into the pit of despair. NO TAKESIES-BACKSIES, MOTHERFUCKER. THIS IS PLATINUM TEXAS PUSSY.

Be sure to spend all that free time you have looking for your balls, sweetie, mm’kay?

–hair flip and sashays away–

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I didn’t see him again for over seven months. Go here to read what happened.