Until yesterday, I thought I knew what men like to see on a woman: Pretty much anything that makes us miserable. Like a wedgie-inducing thong. Or a micro-miniskirt that reveals an ass cheek with each micro-step, despite repeated attempts to pull it down. Or 3-inch stilettos with neck-breaking potential.
True, these accessories are sexy to men. But want to know what the #1 accessory is?
Yeah, I hear your skepticism. And, until yesterday, I would have been skeptical, too.
But, in yet another procrastination maneuver designed to avoid writing, I decided I needed to take a l-o-n-g walk. In the rain. So, bundled up in a shapeless sweater my grandmother probably wouldn’t wear and a scarf looped around my neck so many times that I could barely turn my head, I grabbed my eye glasses, a book, and my umbrella.
And off I went, umbrella up, FOREVER ODD in my hands, reading as I walked the streets of San Francisco.
“That must be a good book,” came a deep voice in front of me.
I looked up into the smiling face of a man walking his Pomeranian or some such faux dog. I smiled. “Yes, Dean Koontz is always a good read.”
He smiled, we made arcane small talk, and I went back to reading as I entered the crosswalk.
“Hi,” came another male voice.
I looked up. “Hi,” I said to the good-looking Latino man in front of me.
He smiled. I smiled. And, after spotting the wedding ring on his left hand, I went back to reading and walking.
“Hey,” said another guy.
I looked up and my heart did that stutter thing that I write about in books as I looked at the bad boy with the dazzling smile, wearing the hard hat. Dammnnn.
“Hi. Looks good,” I said motioning to the wall he was building, proud of the confidence in my voice, as if I knew a good wall from a bad wall.
“You’re welcome. And you look good, too.” I said, smiling.
Surprise flitted across his face and his smile widened.
Surprise flitted through my body – I was surprised because I can rarely flirt without the help of a Long Island Ice Tea. Or two. Sometimes, it takes three.
Despite the lack of a wedding ring on his finger and the tingly thing his smile was doing to my insides, I walked away. Twenty-three years old was too young, even in this Decade of the Cougar.
But, this time, as I walked along, that tingly feeling was preventing total concentration on Koontz’s tale of a man who saw the dead.
“Wow. How do you do that?”
I looked up at the guy leaning against a wall, taking a cigarette break. “Do what?” Lust after twenty-something year olds?
He motioned to the book. “Walk and read. Don’t you stumble?”
Oh. That. “Well, occasionally I stumble. Once I walked into a street sign.”
I described the lump on my head from the metal pole, then the conversation went deep, as my stumbling became metaphoric for stumbles in life.
I won’t bore you with the remaining encounters. The point to all this is: When I’ve walked the streets in this same attire, book-less, rarely has anyone said a word to me or spared me much of a second glance. But, book in hand, suddenly half the guys I pass want to chat.
So. I’m convinced that men find books on a woman sexy. And I’m convinced that books are the new guy magnet. Anyone want to borrow FOREVER ODD ?