Dirty Old Man

Okay:

I'm called a lot of not-so-flattering things by people. Asshole. Nigger.

The most disturbing, I'd have to say, is Dirty Old Man.

I don't know how I've earned the moniker, but it has stuck. Quite often I will hear, "JESUS! You're only 28? I thought you were way older than that."

"Really? Even with the whole baby-face thing going on?"

"Yeah. I guess it's 'cause you're such a Dirty Old Man."

I typically won't get much of an explanation beyond that. Apparently, I just am.

My ex-girlfriend used to point out old men on the street and say, "Claude, that's you when you grow up." It was our little joke.

The other day, however, I realized that there may be something to all this Dirty Old Man business.

I was at the bar with Gill and Our White Homegirl. I may have not mentioned this before, but Our White Homegirl is nobody's Seabiscuit. She's a very attractive woman, and ranked pretty high up on the hierarchy of eye candy at the job.

So anyway, we were knocking a few back. One of our co-workers was at the bar. A middle-aged, short, portly fellow with black frame glasses, salt and pepper hair, and a nerdy grin. He's never said more than two words to me, and from his looks, I've always judged him to be the quirky introverted type.

As he drank, however, I could see him slowly come out of his shell. After an hour or so, he took his check. But before he left, he stopped past our table.

"Gentlemen!" he said to Gill and I, shaking hands. Then he turned to Our White Homegirl. And I noticed in that moment that he was hammered out of his gourd. The sides of his mouth curled up into a wicked, perverted grin. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in and took her hand.

"I like you," he said, flatly. "I like talking to you. I like listening to you talk."

I could tell this was going somewhere bad. Our White Homegirl, smiled an uncomfortable smile.

"I like looking at you."

Then his eyes dropped.

"And I like looking at those nice...big...round...titties."

Well.

I collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and my body shook. By the time I opened my eyes, everyone was looking at me and our co-worker had left. Then I looked up at Our White Homegirl, and she was not laughing. In fact, she looked a little pissed. Her face was all bright pink.

"That wasn't funny?" I asked through violent giggles.

"No, it wasn't actually," she said.

"Can't you see she's offended?" said Gill. Who was also laughing, but not as loud and long as I was. I chalked it up to him having a girlfriend and being sensitive to that sort of thing.

"You're really pissed?" I asked again.

"Yes! That motherfucker says shit like that to me all the time."

"Well do you need me and Gill to go talk to him on some gangster shit?"

"No, I don't need you and Gill to go talk to him on some gangster shit."

"Cuz we'll do it. Just say the word."

"No, thanks. And for the record, you can't tell anyone."

"Are you serious?!! This is, like, the funniest thing EVER! I want to tell everybody."

"And it definitely CANNOT go in your blog."

"Fine."

Sometime later, while I was giggling about this to myself, I realized something. This is funny to me because it is totally something I would say. So much so that it had never occurred to me that Our White Homegirl would take offense.

So there it is.

I am a Dirty Old Man.


Thanks for reading.



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Innocent Question: Would you have been offended by the comment and/or hurt that your male buddies didn't have the presence of mind to defend your honor when it happened? I certainly would not take offense if an older woman told me she liked looking at the bulge in my jeans.