Did I Get Hit On? Again…?

I mentioned before that I’m not too solid in the brain when it comes to getting hit on.  Well…I think it’s time to prove that point even further.  I once worked as a security guard at a Condo building.  The place was like 18 floors of condos, although the first two floors were a parking garage, office, and there was a small grocer’s shop attached to the front entrance.  They also had a fitness center and a open lounge (for tenants) on the 3rd floor.

It was actually a pretty nice place to live in, I think.  Of course I was getting paid $10 an hour to work there at the time and the cheapest Condo was $1100 a month.  They’d just decided to cut costs by firing the $30 an hour doorman and hiring an unarmed security guard to lock up the lounge, fitness center, and shop on the weekends.  This caused some confusion because something a lot of people don’t understand is that a doorman and a security guard are not the same thing.  They are actually the opposite of each other:

A Doorman opens doors for people, helps them carry their bags, and is generally supposed to be accommodating and helpful.

A Security Guard keeps doors closed, checks peoples’ bags for stolen merchandise, contraband, and bombs, and is generally supposed to be vigilant at their post.

 

Back on track, then!

 

But that’s a whole other story…one not nearly as interesting as the one I started telling.  You see during this time I had a couple of chances for some sweet lovin’ that I only realized several years later.  Several years and a wife who thinks everyone who waits on our table is out to sleep with me.  Well okay, there was that one waitress, but that’s a different story.

Anyway the first one was awkward on several levels.  You see this guy ordered some delivery food and when he came down I was at the front desk just wiling away the time (I generally polished my desk three times a night…because the job was reeeaaallly boring).  He introduced himself as ‘Mac’ and I haven’t changed the name because the fact that his name was actually Mac is pretty funny.  Especially when you consider that he was a 5’6” white guy named Mac.

Anyway Mac said that he made a mistake when ordering his sandwich, he got one that was way too big.  He told me that he only wanted a half sub, but he had to order the whole sub because of the delivery minimum.  He offered me half his sandwich, said he had a case of beer we could split, and was about to watch the game.

I told him I was on duty and couldn’t drink.  He then asked me when my shift was over, I told him 2:00am and he promised he’d still be up, and he had the game recorded so he could just rewind it if I wanted to come up then.  I’d be off duty, so the sandwich and beers would be totally cool, then.  I should like to point out that during this conversation it was only 8:00pm.

He wrote his apartment number down and handed it to me, so I’d remember which apartment was his.

Everybody tells me that I could have had my first gay experience if I’d just taken a little stroll up to the eighth floor that night.

Shame I had to wait until that night in Mexican Pris–I mean, never mind.

So what do you think?  Are they right?  Was Mac hitting on me?  Do you think he was disappointed that I never came up to his place?  Let me know in the comments.

~RCS

Did I Get Hit On? Wife Edition!

Unfortunately with Comipo I can’t make perfect reenactments of stories because of resource and space constraints. So here’s the whole story from the last comic.

One day Rich and I decided to hit Sheetz for dinner after work, because we needed gas and didn’t really feel like cooking. We just went in our uniforms (because why the hell would I get changed just to go to Sheetz?) and were waiting for our number to get called.

 

 

We both started looking at random stuff, Rich wondered a little bit down a nearby aisle and I was looking at the little refrigerator where they keep the cold sandwiches and such; trying not to drool on the food. And as I was staring at the food a young boy, probably about 15, olive skin, brown eyes, dark spiked up hair and wearing a polo shirt with the buttons undone and a gold chain across his exposed chest, walked up to me and said “Hey, do you know what the weather will be like tomorrow?”

 

He could have done this and I’d still probably be oblivious.

 

And me, the derp that I am, didn’t realize what he was doing at first, so I replied “Sorry, Sweetie I didn’t watch the news today.” At this point Rich has popped his head out of the aisle with a look of “Oh, who’s this, one of your old friends from high school or something?”

 

 

We’re still not sure if he thought if my uniform jacket wasn’t mine, like maybe my dad’s or something and then realized that is was actually mine and that I was too old for him. Or he was afraid of Rich, but soon after Rich popped out he patted me on shoulder and said “Oh, uh thank you.  H-have a good night.”

 

 

After he walked away I looked at Rich and said “I think he may have been hitting on me.” And we both started to laugh, because we honestly have no idea what he would have followed that up with.  We thought maybe if I said that it would be cold tomorrow he’d say something like “Oh, then I can keep you warm.”  But that’s about all we could come up with.  And then the old jokes started…

 

 

After we came up with the theory that he may have realized I was older than he thought, one of the first things out of Rich’s mouth was “I think he wanted you to sand blast his dick with your dusty cunt.” I started laughing so hard I almost fell over.  But then I reminded Rich that he’s older than me and said “Well, you’re so old that you ejaculate dust!”  We were both laughing so hard.  We even freaked out a nearby couple.

 

“Did you hear what she said, Darling? I know, dear, just ignore them.”

 

We could tell because the girl kept clutching the guy she was with harder and they were both slowly moving away from us. It was hilarious!  I’m kinda surprised the Sheetz workers didn’t ask us to leave because we were laughing so hard.

Ͼ-Mimi

Did I Get Hit On? Part Deux!

It’s no secret that I’m not all that great at telling when people are flirting with me.  Lady Police Officers or Gay Male Cashiers.

Back when the wife and I were still early in our relationship we were going out to eat and decided on Olive Garden for some dinner.

Olive Garden: Obama Approved!

This wasn’t exactly an uncommon thing, but it was the first time we had gone to this particular Olive Garden.  We usually went to the one on the other side of town.

As usual the food was delicious, especially the desserts.  However there was one strange facet to this particular visit:

The Waitress!

Who, me? Tee-hee!

 

She was everything I was looking for in a waitress.  She was good-looking, she was friendly, and most importantly…she brought me food.  However there was just one problem with her.  While she looked me in the eye with a pleasant smile and listened intently while I ordered my food, she would then turn at the hip and give Mimi a disinterested look while she scribbled down whatever the wife said.  And here’s the kicker; once Mimi would order, the waitress would turn her head back to me and stare at me as if asking for permission.  Once I nodded, then she would dash away to get our drinks, food, etc.

She would cheerily chat with me as she sat my food down, and then always as an afterthought she would drop the wife’s food in front of her with a curt, “Careful, plate’s hot.”

So basically we had this going the whole meal…

What I saw…

 

What the Wife Saw…

 

But if you think that’s a kicker, wait until we hit dessert.  I ordered my dessert and then she started to walk away, only for Mimi to stop her with a polite ‘Ooo, wait‘.  The waitress turned her hips as Mimi ordered a piece of cheesecake.  She then turned her whole body to face me and silently gave me this look…

She stared at me for about 30 full seconds before I nodded.  Then she calmly wheeled about and went to get our desserts.  Once everything was said and done we paid and were preparing to leave.  I calculated the tip out, and if I recall it was about $8 at 20%.

I asked the wife how much she wanted to leave for the tip and got a similar reaction as the waitress gave me.

 

I explained very calmly that I had received fantastic service, myself.

 

“But I suddenly see your point. Very well.”

In the end we compromised.  I only left a $1 tip and Mimi didn’t divorce me.  We also didn’t go back to that Olive Garden for almost a year.

~RCS

Officer Krista Did What?

In my ‘day job’ I have to deal with the city police on a semi-regular basis. One particular night when I had to call the police the call was responded to by two officers. One was a regular we deal with; I like to call him Officer Rambo. He’s always got this wild-eyed look to him and can’t stand still.

One time I called to report a guy smoking a crack pipe in the street in front of my workplace and the guy drove away before they got there. Officer Rambo remarked, “Dude! You gotta call sooner, do you have any idea how fun it is to bash out a window with a baton and drag a cracked-out hippy out of a car window?”

Officer Rambo, the later years.

But the other officer was an athletic brunette. She was cute, charming, and very helpful with the case. We’ll call her Officer Krista, because that was her name. Probably…I’m kind of bad with names and this happened over a year ago.

So anyway, Rambo and Krista show up and take statements from my partner and I. At the end of the whole issue I offered them a cup of coffee or such. They politely declined. Rambo reminded me that there is justice to be done or some crazy shit, I’m sure.

That was when Krista tore a sheet out of her pocket notebook, wrote her name and cell number on it and said, “Here’s my number. It’s my cell, so if you need anything, even if I’m not on-duty, go ahead and give me a call.”

Now, that’s what I call polite! I was telling my new partner about the story and about how helpful of a police officer she was. He shrugged, “Yeah, all the city officers have business cards with their name, badge number, and office numbers on them.”

That’s right, they do! But she wrote her personal cell number down, with her name, and no badge number…and, uhh…no office number…

OH MY GOD!!

 

That works, too.

She was hitting on me! Wasn’t she? Wasn’t she, Rambo?!

It was a moot point, I was already married, but still. A cute girl with a nice job was hitting on me! Do you know what that means?  It means the city cops must be drinking on the job, is what it means.

~RCS