Going Down

Elevators are trippy things. Erotically speaking, they’re rife with potential…or so you say to yourself while you’re waiting for one to arrive.

The elevator that stopped for me on Sunday only had one passenger, neither handsome nor ugly, but man, this guy had a mouth.  I know what you’re thinking that I was thinking, and it’s not true.  I was instantly put off.  I walked in and turned around, carefully avoiding noticing him.  He sniffed me.  Sniffed me with big whiffling whuffles.

“What perfume are you wearing?”
“I’m not wearing any.”
“You are. I can smell you. You smell so guten-hotten-taggen.” (Seriously…who says crap like that? In a Swedish Chef accent? Lounge Lizards, that’s who.)

Normally, I have no problem answering any kind of personal question, even coming from a man who’s just tried to inhale me. Not this guy, he wanted to be slapped or have the arch of his foot collapse under a heartfelt stomping.  Luckily, I have a standard tactic for dealing with people like him: silently stare with incredulity; let them read what they will into it.

He kept chattering.

“You smell like something.  Like Chanel, that’s it.  Classy.”
“It’s lotion.”
“No, I can tell, it’s pricey perfume for a lucky lady.”
“It’s expensive lotion for a pissed off, trigger-happy lady.”

You can see where I made my mistake, right?  Maybe if he’d been less slimy I’d’ve been vaguely polite and could have walked out of there a lot less frazzled.  As it was, I was already visualizing him in a lime polyester leisure suit, festooned with gold-plate clains and medallions. I just had to shut him up.  So I hit the emergency stop button and turned on him.

I had much better uses to put his mouth to, and it’s true…annoying people are such fucks.  My ankles flew up to my shoulders in a trice, his seedy imitation Adidas jogging pants tangled around his own ankles before we knew what had hit us.  (Yes, yes, madness, but hindsight is twenty/twenty.) I’m surprised we didn’t break the cable with all the thrashing around we did.  There’s more than one way to skin a cat, as there is more than one way (really, there’re only two ways) to shut a man up.

Okay, so it didn’t exactly happen that way.  In fact, the last two paragraphs were fiction.  It did cross my mind, but I wrinkled my nose at the very thought and just ignored the man until I was able to walk off.  Surprisingly, my thoughts were a lot more detailed than I let on.  My sex life with that man passed before my eyes in mere seconds and resolved itself rather satisfactorily.  So what if it never happened?  My imagination is all I’ve got these days.

Still…couldn’t you just hear the wiki-wiki-whaaa in the background?  And wouldn’t that just make a great precautionary tale to tell your teenage daughters?


Oh…and here’s the ass of the day:



I love asses.  Even annoying ones that accost me in elevators.

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