tell me i am pretty.

i have successfully made it to scotland.

i have successfully tongue-kissed a couple scottish boys.

i have successfully been questioning the self confidence, estrogen levels, and general thought processes of these boys ever since.

exhibit A:

leigh.

fabulously hilarious man with a love for the word cunt and mad respect for me showing him how to properly fist someone while we stood in a packed pub.

[showing does not mean i am into it, i just know things.]

conversation flows smoothly and he thinks my accent is adorable.

he can tongue kiss like a champ and allowed me to act like a respectable lady the first few nights we went out and i told him i would be having no heavy petting in or around my lady bits.

sounds fabulous, non?

well, kids, i pray to sweet baby jesus not all scottish men turn into fourteen year old girls when they are smitten, because this one sure did.

i cannot possibly list all the needy texts i have received.

i forgot to bring a tape recorder when he let the term 'girlfriend' slip, then ask if i would go to his uncle's birthday party on the weekend.

i wish i had a witness to the questioning about if i have spoken to my mother, father, brother, friends, flatmates, cat, dog, doctor, palm reader, the irish guy in my class, second grade teacher, the british guy in my class or the virgin mary about my feelings toward him.

i am kicking myself for not counting the number of times he has stated he misses me, and i cleverly respond by commenting about the cheap cost of cheese in this country.

[seriously, for a huge portion of brie, i paid one pound forty.]

but the real kick to the baby maker, the one text that made it oh-so-clear my non-existent testicles were much larger than his, was as follows;

[insert twenty minute phone conversation lasting until 11:21 pm]

-text from leigh, 11:25 pm: it was nice talking to you x

thought in my head: you said that before we hung up, no text for you.

-text from leigh, 11:37 pm: tell me something nice x

thought in my head: what the fuck?

-text i sent: the fact that we can giggle about fisting and then spoon is cool. now stop acting like a girl.

i feel like i am the stereotypical male trying to still get laid whilst balancing delicately between leading someone on, and lying to myself about the fact that he does not have ovaries hidden somewhere; pumping out more estrogen and vitamin-clingy than a bus filled with catholic schoolgirls who give their boyfriends rim jobs then doodle their names onto binder covers.

"tell me something nice"

is this the male version of " tell me i am pretty"?