I got aggravated at flirting. Aggravated!?! What the spork? Yeah yeah spanky, I know you were determined to devour artistic wonders. But, not just one shortie, but three seperate shorties in three seperate galleries flirted with you. And you sneer and think what's a man gotta do to look at paintings in peace? I'm worried about ya man.

Honestly, I was all excited the night before having decided that I was going to the Met. Walk casually around the Nineteeth Century European Painting and Sculpture rooms. Hadn't been there in far too long. No anchors to drag along. All by myself, at my own pace.

Turn around after spending much eye time on The Forest in Winter at Sunset by Pierre Rousseau. Two chicks, one playing off a finger point move, halt their titters, and immediately look in another direction. Thinking my peripheral imagination could be working overtime I hustle on to the next collection and stop elaborating on hidden messages. They follow for three rooms whispering. Christ. Roll my eyes and head for another section of the museum.

Completely enraptured by a Manet painting in the special exhibit of French painters apparent lust of Velasquez and other Spanish painters of his time. Don't recall the title but it's a copy of the execution painting by Goya. It's absolutely palpable. The richness of stark black tones intermingled with a monochromatic palate of earth tones. It's a perfect painting.

A chick sidles up next to me. Her berry skin creme aroma broke my concentration for a sec, and I sidestepped a little so she could get a better view. She starts commenting on the piece. Asking me what I think of it. I answer politely. She gives a smirk.

Groan. Alright you are cute, and I won't deny that under normal circumstances, your open toed shoes, tantalising smell, long wavy hair, and pipe fitting lips would have me trying to get the digits. I was on an art mission though. She walked away after my disinterest hit her gut.

Last one. I sound like a tool don't I?

Not many tourists in the Modern Art section. Low traffic. Good place to end the day, not bumping into unthinking elbows, or looking through perms of old ladies that just step in front of you. Hallelujah that most of the population doesn't understand abstract art. Yaaaaay, shoo shoo.

I was actually getting turned on to Modigliani's Reclining Nude. Not in the same way of watching Christina Ricci enjoy a popsicle. The pure sensualism of the painting was stirring the blood vessels. So there was no wood, just a brain erection.

As I stated before, the Modern Art galleries are much less filled with people. Absolutely no need for torso pinball. Chick positions herself inches away from my left shoulder. She breaths in through her nose real deep. Now, I don't claim to be an expert on women. No guy, no matter what planets he compares chick's to, understands the machinations of the female mind. It will just never happen. But I know enough to know that many chicks determine the last check on the "would I fuck him list" with a smell test.

I suppose I was smelling tasty. Couple seconds later she moseys on to the next painting, not before brushing her tit along the back of my arm. Casually looks over her shoulder, flips her hair a little, and walks to to accentuate her ass.

Are we serious? I mean she looked perfect to mount right next to Mancusi's Bird in Space, body fluids flinging dangerously close to priceless artwork. But I was in no mood to respond to her Pavlovian experiment. I mean the old tit rubbing against the back of the arm trick? Did I really look that simple? I groaned and left the building.

Fade to one hour later, the setting; spanky's crib. We see our hero chewing the skin off his knuckles. Nothing but nipples and manicured toes out there today. Even on the streets I caught the eyes of ladies wondering if that obviously heterosexual man in his thirties had a ring on his left hand. Could not be bothered. Think I am gonna take the laces off of my hiking boots and whip my back bloody for a few hours.