Bathing in sex repellent

"You're so nice."

These three words will plague some boys their entire lives. Some will even go to great lengths to prove what assholes they can be.

Cue the defensive, "Nice guys finish last." They say it like it's a bad thing, but what are we talking about here? Some kind of race I'm not aware of? In Karmic poker (a game I just made up for the sake of argument), virtue beats depravity hands down.

There is a delicate balance between being nice and being a victim. Girls don't generally like victims. But there's not a thing wrong with 'nice.' Nice guys have the privilege of weeding through the women who hate themselves and seek drama and abuse from their lovers.

The first crush I ever had was on a boy named James. The boy next door. Literally, right next door. A nice boy. A really nice boy. He was safe and warm and preteen-awkward. He was a soft place to land, and completely out of my reach. He had a crush on my sister.

His kitchen window was adjacent to my bedroom. My daily contact with James was behind two panes of glass and a three-foot strip of yucky Detroit grass. I'd sit in the dark and watch him wash dishes until the hot water would steam the window.

He'd talk to himself, laugh, dance around sometimes.

I've had a crush on James for thirteen years.

When I'm in town, I make a special trip to the basic brand-name bookstore to watch him pour coffee and stack purple romance novels. Of course, I pretend that I need these specific tarot cards, or that I only like the atmosphere of this generic Borders.

With my husband in tow (also a 'nice' guy), I point him out. "That's James. Isn't he cute?" I say, misty eyed.

James never sees me. Never really has. I don't need him to. He's my pinnacle of nice-boy...the reason I never equated sexiness with meanness.

He has no idea how appealing he is. As do most nice boys who think their personalities have cursed them.

I'm thinking nice is not what stands in one's way. Isn't the finish line in terms of one's life death? What moron is rushing to finish that race first? Is the winner the one who out-dies everyone else? Nyah nyah, I beat you!

So, I'm thinking it's not about winning... Not about finishing first... But about seeking what you think you deserve. And then getting it.

Or, in this case, getting some.

I hope that you don't take this as like I'm hitting on you or anything. I'm approaching you just totally as someone who digs what you wrote, absolutely nothing more. I only say that because I'm sure you get a lot of guys sending you all these creepy intrusive messages right out of nowhere, what with this being the internet at all. I wouldn't do that, personally. Honestly I've never understood it, you know, this drive some guys have. I've always seen flirting as something extremely intimate that should be done when you're close to someone and there's no chance of there being all this weird awkwardness. But at any rate I'm sure you have so many guys pursuing you on here that you're a little guarded. You don't need to be guarded with me.

Gosh, you're pretty.

I mean, ah, well, yeah, you're pretty, I'm not saying that you aren't, but I mean that you're pretty in a strictly objective way. You, well, you have nice features. I'm not afraid to say that, claypenny. What was your real name? Okay, sorry. I know. I understand. I'm sorry. Anyway, I'm a very open person, and when I feel a certain way people are gonna know about it. I'm not one of these men who's afraid to feel anything because they want to look all tough. Yeah, you might call it sensitivity. But that's not a bad thing. You don't think that's a bad thing, do you? Oh, okay. Good. I'm glad. I don't either, ha, ha, ha.

Mother thought it was a bad thing. Always wanted me to man-up. That's what she'd say. We can talk about that later, when there aren't so many people around.

Okay, right, sorry. I understand - yes, I agree, that was out of line.

I'm sorry.

There are a lot of women out there like my mother, you know. I've met them. Women who want a bad boy. Want a man with can-do, go-getter attitude. You know, aggressive. Like that girl Savannah in my art class who's with that guy with his arms sleeved up with crazy tribal tattoos named Steve. If I want to meet someone I suppose I could grow an ugly goatee and get some pirate ship tattooed across my back. I'd probably have to shave my back from then on, though, if anyone - nevermind. I don't want to get into it.

I hate Steve.

It's just, you know ... you can only be alone for so long. I try to act like nothing bothers me but it hurts so God damn much ... I ... Oh God, I'm sorry ... okay. Okay. Whew. I'm okay. Alright.

It's nice to have someone to talk to, is all.

Well, here, why don't I give you my e-mail address? You don't e-mail? Oh. Well, how about instant messenger? No? An old-fashioned girl, then. I like that. So, why don't we - oh, okay. Right. No, I understand. You better get going. Okay, see you later then.