What to do when a married man comes on to you?
Well, it depends. Is it just for tonight? What is his relationship with his wife like? Is someone going to get hurt if you do cross the line? Maybe it’s down to the individuals involved…
Anne Sexton, 15 Jun 2010
He's attractive and he's flirting with me, but I really wish he wouldn't.
We're having one of those conversations – it's stilted, like a car, stopping and starting on a journey to nowhere in particular. Ten minutes ago we were chatting amiably, but now he has decided to up the ante and is refusing to take no for an answer.
None of this is said, of course. There's a subtle interplay between language and body language that happens during flirting. Words are necessary, yes, to carry the conversation forward, but what's really going on is unvoiced, at least initially.
He touches my hand; I remove it and pick up my glass. Five minutes later, he brushes my thigh and I shift my leg a few inches away from him. Neither of our very definite hints are having the desired effect.
Frankly, I don't know why he's bothering. To amuse myself, I enumerate the possible reasons.
Option number one: my skirt. Sitting down it's a lot shorter than I'd realised standing in the dressing room mirror a week before. It's more than half way up my thigh and no amount of rearranging, twisting and pulling is going to make it any longer.
Option number two: he thinks I'm an easy target. This is partially circumstantial and partially my own fault. I am friendly, perhaps too friendly on occasion, but he is my friend Emma's cousin, so rudeness isn't an option. Add to this the fact that I'm your trusty HP sex columnist and wearing a skirt that doesn't leave much to the imagination, and perhaps it's understandable that he has got the wrong impression.
Option number three: it's a numbers game. It's late, and for a Saturday night, the pub is remarkably quiet. There isn't a lot for him to choose from. He's zoned in on me because there just isn't anything else going.
There's Emma, of course, but this is Dublin where thankfully most people observe genetic niceties and don't do the nasty with family. There's a cute girl over in the corner, but she's gay. I know this because I was chatting to her earlier.
Then there's Haley, my sister-in-law. You'd have to be a brave man to try your luck with her. Not because of Haley herself, who is lovely, but because she comes attached to my brother. He's a big guy, and since he shaved off his hair he looks like he supplements his income breaking bones for the Russian mafia. In reality he's a code-writing, computer-fancying, guitar-strumming geek who buys pints for amusing strangers – we Sextons are all friendly – and has been known to give the coat off his back, literally, to the homeless, but that doesn't stop people from crossing the road when they see him walking down a dark, empty street.
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