As any who have dared to venture far enough to read more than a couple of these Strange Ramblings could testify, I profess often enough to being an unusually attractive specimen of the male persuasion. And not having met me, it would be fair enough that you might doubt such claims.

Yet arrogance over attractiveness is so far beyond what I actually feel, or might ever wish to express (at least in any serious manner). In fact, when I assert here that I am, truthfully, a stunningly gorgeous creature, I will confess that I've arrived at this conclusion through careful research and analysis.

For most of my life, my answer to whether I thought I was attractive: "Well. My mom thinks I'm really cute."

And in a very real sense, that really was what I thought on the topic. I was fairly confident that I was not ugly because my mom says so. Sure, you're probably thinking everybody's mom thinks they're cute, or at least will say they do. Myself, I don't really believe that every mom of a butt-ugly person really think's their kid is a somehow attractive. In fact, if the parents know they themselves are not stunningly attractive, and you resemble them, they probably have a fairly accurate idea of how unattractive you are.

Now, I can't really speak for Freud's whole Oedipous thing, but I've never really had the hots for my mom. Love her to death, but she's always just been my mom ... plus, my whole life at least she's been pretty heavy, and I'm not so much into that. Anyway, I digress -- the point is that others always seemed to think my mom was attracitve, and I happen to know for a fact that my mom is a terrible bullshitter. Her conscience just won't let her live with pulling the wool over someone's eyes, even if it's for a very good reason. And so, when my mom said I was attractive, I believed her.

BUT...

(And there always is one...)

Since I went with my mom's standard and, as I grew up, I developed to actually not be cute, my opinion of my attractiveness for most of my adulthood has not been quite accurate.

What many, many misread messages and screwed up relationships and a general genuine befuddlement have finally made incontrivertible to my rather analytical mind: I'm not "cute". I'm sexy. I'm gorgeous. I've "got a certain something". Or, to state it as the result of my years and years of scientific research: If I walk into a given room of strangers, greater than 90% of the people upon first glancing me would generalize, "That is a fairly attractive man."

I know, that part doesn't sound so impressive. But, when you consider that anywhere from a third to a half of that 90% will usually find me highly, unsually attractive -- well, that's where I come from when I say that I am.

So what's the point of all this?

Well, good on you if you've read this far. Your reward for it all? A bit of anecdotal evidence:

This morning, as I was leaving for work, the cute, apparently popular twenty-year old who lives next door to me comes out of her place, wearing what she apparently sleeps in -- this tiny red pseudo-bra-like top (sorry, I've no idea what all the varieties of ladies underthings are called) and equally skimpy little blue short-like underpants (see what I mean?).

She rather rushes close to me and asks in a harrowed manner, "Is it Wednesday?"

Okay, normally I'm actually quite good for making eye contact, even in the presence of very extreme cleavage. (Which is to say, in the presence of extreme cleavage, I'm really good at not getting caught.) But in this case -- I'm thinking, "Wow, look at those." As I mumble something to the affirmative.

So, it turns out she's upset because she's slept through a dentist's appointment, and needs to use my phone. Didn't know she didn't have a phone.

So for about ten minutes, there's this rather naked nubile young girl prancing around my room. And not shy in the slightest. She hung out waiting on the phone, we talked. I stared. Hey, I was half-asleep, she was half-naked. To be expected, yes?

Wow. Thighs. Wow. Legs. Wow, look a those again. And look. Shoulders. Ooh, and neck. Arms. Tight little belly...

Yes, a part of my mind was having a conversation. A very small part.

Yet in the end -- she finishes her phone call, she thanks me and I say "Sure"... and I go to work while she goes back to her place.

This, really, is amongst the weakest exanokes of my severe anti-macking skills. I will thrill you some day with tales of being given naked lapdances, being grinded against, and even being directly asked for sex when alone with an attractive young woman -- and somehow leaving each situation without so much as having even copped a feel.

After every one of these times, I end up slapping myself in the forehead. Sometimes within an hour or two laters, sometimes days,weeks, or months later. Because any man actually possessing a penis in any of these situations should at least have tried to go for it.

And even after having realized (yes, after having had more than one girl tell me and/or demonstrate so) that I am in fact attractive enough to have women just throw themselves at me ... if the woman has constraint enough to actually not physically jump me herself, or applies even the sheerest amount of subtlety, I will in most every case blow the call.

Again I ask, exactly what is my damage?

I'm curious, tho: If you've atually read all this, what odds would you give that this girl really only wanted to use my phone, and may not have even considered anything else? How likely is it that that was just what she'd slept in, and she happens to be very comfortable with near-nakedness and with resultant staring?

Theoretically possible, I suppose, that the staring was the point, but from all my observations of this girl she doesn't really seem the vain type. She's attractive, but far more a hipster than a "pretty girl".

So I don't know. It's late, and I'm tired.

I'm also very, very lame.