I realized that I might have a bit of a problem when I almost rear-ended the car in front of me while driving down Kloof Street the other day.
She was walking in that way that only a model can walk. And while legs that long don’t need any help from heels or jean shorts so short that the pockets stick out of the front, this is Cape Town, in season, and so even perfect 10s need to pull out all the stops. Which this girl most certainly did, to almost devastating effect.
“Daddy, car!” screamed my daughter and I slammed on the brakes.
I’d just picked up my daughter from school when I saw her, the model with the walk. I slowed down to a crawl and drank her in, while she hypnotized me with her walk, each step causing a buttock to lift and draw me in closer like a curled index finger, until the red brake lights of the car in front of me broke my reverie.
I wasn’t always like this. I used work as a model profiler. I was a professional with integrity. Those girls whose stories I was paid to tell, so that there was something to run alongside the photographs of them looking fuckable, were strictly out of bounds. That one time the Brazilian girl I’d just interviewed on a yacht asked me to come in for “a coffee” after I’d dropped her off at home? I said no thank you. That other time the flirty party girl leaned over the table and touched my hand, then told me how she was bored with all the guys in her scene and was looking for someone like me? I did one better and gave her my friend War’s number. There was no third time, but I’m sure that if it had happened I would’ve stuck to my usual script.
However, instead of gaining wisdom with age all I seem to get is an extra serving of lechery. It doesn’t help that my hair is thinning. Nor does the mustache that I wear. Add to this the too tight pants and the homemade tattoos and the nervous demeanor and it’s understandable why women clutch their bags to their side when I walk past.
But that’s just how I look, it’s what’s inside that counts, which is as grimy as the inside of a plug. Yep, peek inside the diseased imaginings to see where things get really creepy.
Someone else is using my parking at work and my bike won’t start. I slum it. One thing that I’ve learned is that people who regularly ride the train aren’t beautiful. Beautiful people are offered lifts. Even if they live out of the way of the person doing the offering. That, or they own cars, these beautiful people, because they’re the ones who get the high-paying jobs based on how they look. Because you can teach someone to type, but you can’t teach them to be a ten.
Anyway, when my elbow touches it I know that it’s a tit. The train is packed, 99% of which are uglies, but somehow my elbow has found a tit and a good one at that. Now you could burn my elbow with a cigarette and I wouldn’t flinch. There’s just no sensitivity there. However, when it’s in the proximity of a tit something changes and the demure beast suddenly has a Mugwump’s hypersensitivity. Anyway, I apologize, attempt to change positions, but this train is just too full and so I turn back to the girl packed into this tin can with me, find enough space to shrug my shoulders, and then continue to accost her with my elbow while the bucolic train coughs along, enjoying every minute of it.
Why? Because I’m a creep.
Don’t believe me? I’m at the beach, defrosting on The Patch, still in my wetsuit, all rubber like a gimp, when I see a group of girls in red full piece swimsuits doing their lifesaving training. They’re on their knees, taking turns putting one another in the recovery position, dislodging the others airway, pumping chests, putting their bee-stung lips to the other plump mouths to simulate resuscitation… They are tanned, toned and teenaged. I lie to myself. Tell myself that I’m just appreciating their athleticism and their commitment to keeping our beaches safe.
Whatever helps you to sleep at night, pal.
At work I’m no better, what with the tight black skirts and sexy pumps that help conjure up images of a power lunch. There’s this one girl specifically. Her with the type of hair that I like, dark, but with eyes that are too light to belong to someone so swarthy. Her body is strong, powerful, proportioned like something you’d carve into the desk at your all boys’ school using the compass from your geometry set. Daydreams become more detailed. She’s married and is having problems at home. Her husband doesn’t appreciate her anymore. She feels like they’re nothing more than roommates these days, passing ships, he doesn’t excite her anymore, there’s no romance, and, wow, I’m such a good listener, so we retreat to a stairwell…
I’ll stop you right there.
I’d never act on any of this. I’m a creep, no doubt, but my youth did me a solid by teaching me the futility of chasing unreciprocated desire. In fact, just worrying about being a creep is probably enough to stop me from ever acting out. Moral backbone? Check! These inhibitions are exactly what I need to quell the erotic fantasy from ever becoming more than that. So my mind can be left free to wonder, my eyes skirting behind sunglasses, my turgid crotch obscured by a desk. Nothing is going to happen.
I’m normal, right?
I can stop anytime I want to…
Wait, what are those red lights that were over there doing right here?