In the summer of 1973, when I was a chronically unlaid 17 year old living in Canada, my similarly afflicted friend and I would sometimes seek a respite from the heat in our non-air-conditioned houses by Hanging Out in a local (a mere two mile walk from my place) shopping mall. In those deliciously pre-PC days, standard hot-weather attire for young women was usually a delightful ensemble consisting of cut-off jean shorts, sandals, and a skimpy halter top worn without a bra.
We were also 'fashionably dressed'; i.e. hair centre-parted and falling to mid-chest, shredded jeans, big belts, T-shirts bearing the name of some band or another, and the obligatory clunky 3" heeled platform ankle boots. The latter were necessary because (a) we were both shortish and (b) weighing about 100 lbs. each, we needed the ballast.
We'd roost quietly on a bench situated a carefully-determined distance from one of the entrances and, as surreptitiously as hormones and inexperience would permit, would watch the parade of princesses (we were not wildly discerning) undulate by.
'Carefully determined', because that distance was exactly the time required for the women's nipples to sense the change in temperature, and involuntarily erect.
We'd watch this religious revelation unfold, pair after pair after mesmerizing pair, and in a lordly fashion we'd quietly inform one another that this was undoubtedly due to the effect our aftershave had on the maddened olfactory lobes of these helpless maidens. Needless to say we neither possessed nor needed aftershave, and wouldn't for a year or two, but it was a delightful/miserable way to while away an afternoon. Of course we were far too shy to SPEAK to them or do anything that might have drawn their attention because then they might want to TALK to us, and our Inner Errol Flynns, so dashing in fantasy, were sufficiently incognito in real life as to be completely nonexistent.
Anyway they never seemed to notice us in the least; our negligible level in the amorous food chain was such that we weren't even afforded the privilege of being pointedly ignored.
But time cures the problem.
And that's adolescence.
AD-O-LE-SCENCE.
To those who call me (and those who support 'my kind') a creep.... for your information, I'm in my low 30s, good looking, in great shape and very sociable. I don't have any problem communicating with women, unlike many here who call me names. I am also very comfortable with my physical appearance, surely contradictory to some of the name callers. In other words, I'm the total opposite of a stereotypical 'creep', as you call it. Now before you call others 'creeps' , take a look in the mirror.
Yet the gentleman self-described above, who even though he seems to have the wherewithal to indulge his physical/emotional desires is still spending time hanging out in nail salons. Understandable if not excusable in a boy with a fetish blundering his way through puberty, but in a grown man this behaviour is unfortunate to say the least.
