There are countless articles about how to become the most fantastic flirt in the kingdom of flirtdom and bat your eyelids and mirror actions until the night becomes a haze of heady lust and zinging signals.
So I’m not going to make this another one. Namely because I am in need of Freddy the Flirting Fountain of Knowledge to impart his (or her) wisdom to me.
My flirting technique has not so much evolved as mutated into separate phases; each is a unique and amorphous life form. Some are higher life forms than others but all are strange and slightly wrong in their own right. I went through a phase where I was the ballsy, brazen flirt who went out for what I wanted and goddamnit I got it. But that doesn’t really work because inevitably the guys that are attracted to this flirt want a woman who will carry on dominating them and bossing them around when really I wanted to play with their ears and read Jughead comics while eating vanilla ice cream in bed.
Sometimes I go the complete opposite direction and do the total antithesis of flirting. Pay attention, if I really like you this is what I’ll do. I’ll start talking about my diet plan or the weird fungus that’s growing out of left toe for no real reason other than that my mind has convinced me that flirting with this particular man is so out of the question as he is so utterly unattainable that I should firmly instate him as a eunuch-like friend by telling him all the things that were wrong with my ex and the detailed reaction my body has to Senakot.
Recently my flirting has taken on a new life form. Faced with the latest victim/bachelor, I became The Giggling, Blushing Maiden Woman. I don’t know who this woman is, usually the one I’m sneering at from behind my black double espresso. It all started when I knocked over a rack of lollypops while talking to him in a shop (yes, really) and since then I’ve found myself, to my horror, tittering and looking down and even using my hand to cover my bashful smile in his presence. Unsurprisingly this particular tactic is most likely to provoke a favourable response in men.
But really none of this is my fault. It’s the men who are bringing out the bogus flirt in me – a quality flirt needs a quality man for inspiration, like a beautiful work of art and its admirable muse who made it happen. So until my muse comes, I’ll keep stumbling out inappropriate jokes about mothers, talking about my recent bout of athlete’s foot and twiddling my hair around my finger coyly. It worked for Minnie Mouse…the last one, I mean.