The Other

Some people say that they get hit on more when they’re part of a couple.  I don’t get this at all.  It seems like when I’m in a couple, I give off some very strong “I am about as interested in you, sir, as I am in contracting herpes” anti-pheromones that keep all but the most desperate men* from firing in my direction.  I know, I know, you think this happens when I’m single, too.  You’ve probably seen the super-attractive way I can eat handfuls of roasted meats.  After that spectacle, it would be nigh unthinkable for any attractive male specimen to demonstrate any erotic interest in me.


When I’m single and at a bar (granted, it’s been three years now, but my memory hasn’t yet deteriorated), I spend a lot of time telling dudes that I’m capable of buying my own drinks.  Mostly because I’m disagreeable by nature, but also because people with bad timing or poor observation skills are annoying (“no, seriously, I just got this beer…like, you saw the bartender hand it to me 0.9 seconds ago.”).  I don’t get hit on because I’m ridiculously attractive.  I mean, I do all right, I guess, and I have my moments where I cannot believe my own capacity for foxy.  But overall, I’m just okay.  Trust me, I have lived in Southern California, where a St. Louis 10 barely even registers on the scale.  I do fair in the Midwest, but elsewhere I’m just some loud girl with wide shoulders.

I get hit on because I’m The Other.  The tattoos play their part in this, but the red hair?  Duuuuude.

If I had any interest in piggybacking on someone else’s success, I totally would have jumped on the Hot Donna thing.  Back when I had long hair, I was constantly being accosted in bars.

“Holy shit, it’s Hot Donna!”

And then I’d turn around, and someone would tilt their head and be like, “Kind of.”

Thanks.  I guess.  No one calls me Hot Donna anymore, probably because she dyed her hair blonde and I got mine cut.  I’m okay with this sudden absence of perceived hotness, though, because the color is still the same and this is the Other-ness I was talking about.  Whether or not someone actually wants to sleep with me (or any other redhead), they’re intrigued by the hair color nonetheless, and this is what prompts them to make the most dumbassed of comments.  Blondes, you seriously have no idea.

This is a pretty comprehensive list, though no one has ever called me a “Titian” (possibly because I’ve never been hit on by a man who hit puberty during the Italian Renaissance).  My two favorite comments – and by “favorite” I mean “most likely to cause you physical injury” – are about interior decorating and sugary alcohol beverages.

Gentlemen, please.  You’re never going to get anywhere near my front door so there’s no way you’ll find out about the carpet.  Also, if the funniest joke you can come up with is ordering a Red Headed Slut while snickering and pointing at me (especially when you’re standing behind me at the bar and the back of the bar happens to be lined with mirrors, you stupid jackass), it’s unlikely that I’ll be getting drunk with you at all, let alone on shitty drinks made with cheap ass Pucker.

I kind of alluded to this before, but I’d guess that only some of the people who make these comments actually want to sleep with a redhead.  Red hair is a novelty to them.  It’s interesting and might be dangerous, but kind of like heroin or amputee porn, not something they really truly want to get intimate with.  Yes, sir, you are hilarious, what with your observations about redheaded wildness and fury, oh, ha ha, you are so clever.  But do you really want a crack at my firecrotch?  Of course not   You’re terrified of its scorching power!  Maybe you’re afraid that it’s one giant freckle!  With teeth!   Hell, you probably still think Asian pussies are sideways!

Oh man.  That was intense.  Such is the power of red hair.

Clearly, not all men are this retarded (suck it, Sarah Palin ).  I’ve dated guys who were normal human beings about hair color.  They realized that it’s just hair.  It doesn’t make me more superhuman in the sack than the next girl, nor does it make me more likely to chase you with deadly weapons because of my alleged temper.  Which I assume is “what they say about redheads,” because idiots are always telling me I know what they say about redheads, and I don’t care to have any idea.

*This includes men who think I’m gay but still hit on me anyway.  In addition to my anti-pheromones, I apparently give off some incredibly strong lesbian signals, too.  So say me and Jen via e-mail:

Jen: I was lamenting to my friend about how I missed you event, which I was really looking forward to attending, and his first question was  Is she a lesbian?  – apropos of NOTHING.  I SWEAR.  Why do people always think you are a lesbian???

Me: Dude, EVERYONE thinks I’m a lesbian.  I don’t know what it is.  I haven’t had gay hair since high school.

Jen: Yes, and you’ve also been (presumptively) sleeping w/ a man for the past three years straight – usually conclusive evidence that a woman is not a lesbian.  My friend was not convinced.

About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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