My high school boyfriend once asked me just what it was that made my hair smell so nice. At the time, I assumed that this smell could be attributed to my Herbal Essences conditioner, but after experiencing almost two and a half years here at UR, I’ve now decided that this smell must be some sort of creepy guy attractant cream, because – oh my god – what is wrong with the guys that hit on me and why are they so insanely creepy?
It all started freshman year with a guy who my friends and I later labeled “Lurky” for his uncanny ability to be creepily lurking wherever I, or any other bearer of ovaries and milking ducts, happened to be. During orientation week, Lurky informed me that he liked to look through people’s peepholes. I responded by covering my peephole with paper, but I always feared that one day I’d come back from class and he’d have broken into my room – and my underwear drawer.
The culmination of our creepy relationship came when I was talking to my friend Colin in the hall. Lurky got jealous because I was talking to another guy, and in a last ditch attempt to “get” me, he emerged from the pits of his room in a towel without shower things. Mind you, this was not the kind of guy you want to see in a towel anytime ever in any dimension of time, space or sanity. He exhaled like a bull when he passed Colin, issuing a deadly glare, then returned five minutes later without wet hair, growled at Colin a second time and locked himself in his room. At this point I had had enough, so Colin and I devised a plan to out-lurk Lurky.
We shut Colin in the trash room so that when Lurky emptied his garbage, Colin would be there waiting for him with a really creepy look on his face and ready with the line, “It’s really hot how you empty your trash like that.” Unfortunately our attempts to out-lurk Lurky failed because Lurky never emptied his trash, and Colin got distracted by something shiny or filled with silicone.
This was just the beginning. The situation worsened throughout freshman year – the most notable experience occurred at the Big Gay Party. A homophobic guy who apparently didn’t realize there would be transvestites and, you know, gay people, at the Big Gay Party, wanted to make sure that, despite what my mother calls my “hourglass figure,” I wasn’t in reality an excellent transvestite. He whisked me onto the dance floor, placed his hand across the small of my back, brought his lips romantically to my ear and shouted, “You don’t have a penis, right?” Well, I had gained the freshman 15, but as far as I knew, I hadn’t gained a penis along with it.
The creepiness continued into my sophomore year when I made the mistake of buying a PowerBook with a G4 processor. I was typing away in ITS when I noticed a pale, shrew-like boy, who looked like he had just emerged from a hole buried deep inside the earth’s core, staring at me, the drool collecting in massive pools on the tables. “God,” I thought. “That spit is totally going to leave a water mark.” I avoided eye contact at all costs, pretending I was really interested in Times New Roman size 12 font.
As he drew closer I glared harder at the screen, trying to ward him off with thoughts of football and rugby, hoping that telepathy involving gym class would send him back from whence he came – “whence” being the bowels of the earth. Of course, this did not work, and he crept closer and closer until he was hovering over my computer and I could hear him breathing. I didn’t know what else to do, so I looked up. He grinned sheepishly and said, “Is that a Powerbook with a G4 processor?” I hesitatingly replied, “yes,” which apparently gave him the green light to ramble about the mechanics of this processor. As he babbled on into the depths of the night, I began to despair. Now, not only did I have to contend with creepy and weird and obnoxious guys hitting on me, but I would also have to deal with them hitting on my computer. Although, I must admit that I felt bad for this guy because my computer is kind of a prude and isn’t very good about giving it up.
I continue to wallow in this state of creepiness to this day. I can offer no conclusion to this essay because I cannot possibly fit all my weird guy stories into one column. You can look forward to more rocking good Oh-My-God-Who-Says-That-Who-Does-That-When-Would-That-Ever-Be-OK-type stories in a future column, but until that time comes, let me lay out the guidelines for hitting on me.
If you plan on doing any of the following tactics to try and get into my or my computer’s pants – looking through the peephole to my door, asking me if I have a penis, praising my computer’s prudish, albeit awesome, processor – don’t!
Kaminsky can be reached at