One of my neighbors is a professional tennis player. And by professional I mean he’s a tennis pro at a local club, not that he actually plays on a circuit or anything.
You know all the cliches about tennis pros? He fits them to a tee. He gets tan from traveling to all the tennis events in Australia and Miami and then comes back to Germany and turns his skin orange with self-tanner to maintain the bronzed look. He thinks nylon running pants are the height of good fashion. He looks an awful lot like Ivan in “The Squid and the Whale,” actually, with the same hairstyle and everything.
And because he’s my upstairs neighbor and the walls/ceilings/floors here are pretty thin, I think I can safely say he sleeps with quite a few of his clients. Just like Ivan.
Now, normally I’m all about acceptance. Everyone makes his or her own life choices and who am I to judge, right? If you feel good in your skin, that’s all that matters. Except this dude has a really bad habit of being a super sleaze when he’s talking to me. This isn’t necessarily unusual for men to do, I guess because of either their inability to be gentlemen or my propensity for making vulgar jokes, but I have learned from far too many encounters with super sleazes to always make these jokes in safe company. You know, like with my female friends. Who speak English. Not with guys who could mistake my frequent use of the word fuck to be some sort of attempt at flirtation (which we all know I stink at). So I’d say it’s them, not me.
Super sleaze’s last try at coming on to me came right after his trip to the US. Like all Germans, he wanted to express his confusion at the Americans and their choices (me too, buddy, me too). And part of his confusion came from what, in his mind, was the typical American woman. Bottle-blonde, botoxed, big-busomed and always, always in pairs on the arms of wealthy gray hairs. His opinion of American women was that we are all super skinny but big breasted gold diggers. Um, ok? Maybe in South Beach? Or LA? But, um, maybe not? I raised one unwaxed eyebrow and suddenly, he pulls out this gem of a pick-up line:
“So what are you doing here, all alone in Germany, if you could be stepping out of a Lamborghini in Miami?”
Wait a minute, did you just compare me to a Playboy bunny who has no qualms about sleeping with an elderly Hugh Hefner if it means she’s set for life? Is this really what you think of me? He went on to explain in a smoky bar voice, wink wink, that he meant this as a compliment on my appearance.
What brand of low self-esteem does this dude think I have, if he expects that comparing me to a bimbo is the best way to get me into his apartment? Argh.
In the words of one of my other neighbors: a real schmierpapier, this schmuck. Though it really means something like a slimeball (based on my friend’s definition), I originally thought of the German propensity for curses involving caca and translated to mean a real piece of toilet paper. Fitting, I think, even if it’s not entirely accurate.
**Note to men in my vicinity: If you use bad pick-up lines, I’m going to call you out on them on this here blog. You’ve been warned.