Puh-leeze!

"Whatever, you're so full of shit," I say as I stumble along the sidewalk. He tries to put his arm around me in that playful way that most guys do when they realize they've crossed a line; but I'm off balance -- so it doesn't really work.

"I'm being serious," he says and tries to move in closer again. The rest of the group is walking about four or five blocks ahead of us. I'm trying to move faster, but I can't. My feet hurt.

"Yeah, right" I say and start to scour around for a cab. My feet are done for the night.

"I mean it. I've had a crush on you since grade 7," he says with a big smile.

I roll my eyes and continue walking. I'm tuning him out at this point because I don't really care to hear anything anyone has to say after half a bottle of vodka. I've learned my lesson the hard way, many many times ~ and I'm not falling for this crap any more. Once a player; always a player...unless, of course you're "the one"...but I'm not even going to fool myself into going down that emotional death trap again.

I'm getting too old for this.

"Look," I say and stop. I want him to know I'm not playing games, "You're a really good looking guy and all, and I'm very flattered yaddy yadda yadda...but I'm not some stupid 22 year old whose hearing this shit for the first time, or some girl who is easily swayed by flattery. It's all very nice that you're trying to reenact some wet dream you had when you were 12...and trust me, there's a little 12 year old in me that's blushing right now. But I know your type. I'm not interested. I can't go backwards in time. And I don't appreciate you pulling this crap on me."

He laughs.

Why do guys always do that? Not take us seriously when we're trying to be matter-of-fact-straight-to-the-point? Doesn't he realize how insulting he's being by trying to put the moves on me?

"You're my number one," he says with a big smile.

I glare at him before hailing a cab. Number one? What the hell does that mean? One of the other 14 girls he's feeding this shit to? Number one???

"Whatever," I dismiss him and get into the cab. The rest of the group is way ahead of us...and I'm not having this quasi-quarrel on the street at 3 a.m. in the morning any more. We slide into the cab and I begin to massage one of my feet before turning to him and saying the next thing that comes to me; "Does this crap actually work with anyone? Like...do you actually think you're gonna get laid by using it?"

But he just laughs.

And, as the cab pulls up to the others, I lean back and wonder if there'll ever come a day when I don't have to deal with players any more; when I can actually meet someone with serious intentions -- someone who actually sees me, someone who knows that I'm a good thing. Someone who's ready, willing, and able to rise to the occasion.