So to make my already shitty week worse, I decided last night I would dress provocatively for my last night of film history class to please the left wing Hollywood movie professor. God only knows why because his politics exclude him from ever having a permanent role in my life, but the nasty part of me that his politics don't preclude him from summer flingie status.

Yes, thoughts about having a wild sexual flingie with my rotund extremely left wing film history professor have been popping into my head again like some kind of dangerous contagion. Like I have no idea if Mr. Hollywood Left Winger even finds me attractive, but that doesn't seem to matter to my diseased love starved brain. Okay, so the guy did come up me to last week and thank me for not being afraid to vomit my ultra conservative right wing thoughts in class, but does that mean the man is desperate to jump my creaky bones?

But back to this morning. So I put on this black knit skirt that a friend said was totally too thigh high and wore my black mary janes shoes with the two inch heels, which I decided in the middle of day are really hooker shoes in disguise. I'm not a shoe person, but I think I have a thing for liking two dollar hooker shoes.

I used to own a pair of ankle high black suede boots with a fake fur top and three inch spikey heels that I saw at a shop on Portobello Road in London. They were dirt cheap and on sale, so of course I had to buy them. I didn't seem them in the states for at least four years, and by the time they were the rage in all the stores here in San Francisco I was already bored with them.

I used to call them my hooker poodle boots or my hooker poodley boots, because the fake fur top made them look shaved poodle legs. They were scary as hell to walk in especially when going down hill, but they were so fun to wear. I even wore them to work once and got quite a few stares at work and walking through downtown San Francisco. One guy I used to date loved my shoes and concurred with my idea that they were shoes only a hooker would wear, or someone who likes to look they wear hooker shoes.

Those shoes reminded me that I used to own another pair of shoes with a strap across the ankle, which is like so hooker looking. Only these shoes didn't have heels and had thick rubber bottoms like platform shoes, so I called them my hook clodhopper shoes. They were black suede and I found them in a closeout bin at the Esprit outlet.

So I'm wearing the way too short at my age and my weight black knit skirt, black tights, my black hooker mary janes shoes with the two inch heels, a white scoop necked tshirt, and of course because I was going to work and I couldn't be too tasteless for TV, a pink cashmere cable sweater. I also had a necklace one and some earrings. But it's the two inch heels hooker mary jane shoes and the totally too short black knit skirt that gets the most attention.

And I was so uncomfortable at work with those shoes. My stride is long and when I'm wearing two inch heels I'm always on a slant and I have to take smaller steps which just freaks me out. Then I kept thinking I got weird looks from people at the office, like they were whispering that I was way too fat and my bum looked so enormous in my too tight short knit black skirt. And those hooker shoes? What's up with that?

I was so cursing myself for dressing to please a guy, something I almost never do normally, except for when I really like a guy and that's only been three times that I can remember: 1) always for Steve, the one who got away, 2) for the soccer player guy from England because he demanded I dress to please him, and 3) for my acting teacher who kept casually stating that he wished women would wear more skirts. And now I can add a fourth time for my portly Ira.

But of course since my week was stressful, today was just as stressful so that by the time I got to film history class I was in very foul mood and in no mood to talk to anyone. I kept thinking I should put a note to him in the envelope we had to give to him to mail our tests back in, which gave him my name and phone number and telling him I'd like to get together.

I mean, I could have done that couldn't I? But of course I chickened out, and rationalized to myself that I wanted to take at least two more classes from him and how would that work if I had a summer flingie with him. So no note, no conversation, and I don't think I even smiled at him because I was stressed. And then me being mad at myself the whole bus ride home because I had worn my stupid provocative outfit for nothing, and now my feet were seriously killing me.

Dressing to please a guy, what a bother! It never works out anyway. Steve, the one that got away, never appreciated it. He never know how I agonized over what I wore when we went out on dates, and how I seriously deliberated whether he would find my outfit attractive. Stupid english soccer guy never thought I dressed sexy enough for him, and stupid acting teacher guy ended up being such a new york city whiner.

And if I don't please to dress a guy, then I get comments like the ones I got from Chris, the hot as hell pretty marina jock guy, who used to obliquely chastise me for not wearing outfits that showed my rack more. And he only said that because as it turned out, the guy liked dating women with fake giant cow udder breasts. At least my rack was real.

So no fat Mr. Hollywood left winger in my bed this summer, and maybe that's a good thing I guess.