I'm just a girl.

I freely admit that I am a woman whose ego needs constant stroking. Actually, stroking doesn't quite cut it on occasion, abrasive friction is probably more like it.

For my work Christmas party last year, I spent over two hours getting my hair preened into an amazing coif. I left the salon feeling no less than striking. I came home, and finished my preparations. False eye-lashes. Exquisitely applied make-up. Stunning dress. The look was all glamour, and hopefully, shaggable. B arrived, looking suitably dapper, as per usual. I opened the door, and awaited his praises.

Nothing. Not a sausage. Nada. Zip. Understandably, this made me pretty pissed.

By contrast, I was out tonight with PSD and a couple of his friends, who extol flattery with charm, grace, and don't even sound like they are sucking up that much! Still, it is little comfort when these accolades come from people, delightful as these men are, who have no sexual desire for me (or my gender for that matter) whatsoever.

So pathetic as I am, when recently talking with a gentleman, I found myself near blushing. He is dashing and charming. Witty and talented. Sexy, with a commanding presence, and a little famous. I stood with him chatting briefly, and his eyes langourously took me in. His gaze didn't linger, certainly didn't leer, but seemed to caress. When he realised I had gone quiet, watching him watching me, he returned to look at my face, and said, "You look fantastic. Absolutely hot."

I think I floated home.