The One Who Compared Me to The Most Beautiful Whore in Istanbul

Stalker Alert Level: Dark Orange with Red Polka Dots

Hilarity Level: Very Effing Hilarious

SO, I'M SITTING NEXT TO HIM on my way to Taksim. We're almost there. He's leaning over, staring at me. I want to get off at the next stop, but I'm late for work. I cannot wait for the next bus.

Finally, he starts with (all dialogue in Turkish), "You're very beautiful."

I force myself not to smile. I know this is a disaster in the making, but it's nice to hear that, let's be honest. But I don't respond. He leans closer, trying to get in front of my eyes, which I am intentionally diverting away from him out the window, watching the street and the cars go by.

"Do you like discos? I like discos," he moves in for it now.

"No," I respond, deadpan. "I hate discos. I hate parties. I hate leaving my house. No."

"Do you want to go to a disco with me?" he asks. Obviously, what I said really sunk in.

"No," I snap. "No, I hate discos," I add for emphasis, like he must have missed it the first time.

"You're very beautiful," he says again.

Once more, I grit my teeth not to openly blush and further divert my eyes.

"Would you like to meet sometime?" he goes for the more mundane request.

"No."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"I'm married."

"I don't believe you. You don't have a ring. What, you don't think I'm sexy?" he says so candidly that I almost burst out laughing. I strain my eyes in his direction for a moment to get a good look at him. I know he won't accept my answer if he knows I haven't even looked at him. He's certainly not sexy, but I'm not that mean (though I should be). He looks a bit like a wannabe Tarkan three weeks without a shower and in his first hour of the worst hangover of his life. His hair is all spiked up in an intentional mess, his face set in stone with the perfect "I'm cool" expression, and he's at least a foot shorter than me.

"That's not the point," I tell him. "I am going to work. That's it. I'm not looking for a boyfriend. I don't care who you are, all I want is to go to work."

"We can just be friends," he counters.

"No," I counter counter. "My husband is jealous and I love him and I'm going to work and the answer is No."

"Please. Look at me. I'm going to cry," he begs.

This is unbelievable. What a moron. I look at him regardless because I just have to see this act in progress. I'm half annoyed, but cannot help examining the free entertainment I'm getting here. Yes, his face is distorted and twisted as though he's just been kicked in the balls.

"Are you an immature stupid little boy?" I ask him, thinking this will wound his pride and cause him to straighten up.

"Yes," he answers. Whoops. I never saw this angle coming, but I should have known. I know Turkish men well enough, and I should have known he'd take that one and run with it. "I'm a little baby boy and I'm crying for you," he pleads, pretending to cry.

"Allahım," I say under my breath. What the f%*k am I supposed to say now? Nothing. That is my plan. Silence. Ignore the retard.

"Look," he says, as if preparing his big guns, "I can get the most beautiful woman in Istanbul for only $20, so why won't you go out with me?" The exact phrase he uttered to me was indicative of a subversive sexual request, but I cannot translate this somehow. It was there, nonetheless, in full color. After all, he just compared me to a prostitute, the most beautiful prostitute in Istanbul.

But my jaw is metaphorically on the floor at this point, so I ask him, "$20 for what?!?!?! What can you get her for? What? Can you say that again please."

So he repeats the above line, then adds for emphasis, "And you are not even the most beautiful girl in Istanbul, so why are you acting so special? Who do you think you are?"

I point out bluntly, "I am not a prostitute."

He argues, "Exactly. I don't want a prostitute, which is why I want you. If I wanted a prostitute, I could get the most beautiful one in Istanbul for only $20. So there is no reason for you to deny me."

Aha! Great logic, but I'm sorry you uneducated dirt bag, I'm not that desperate. I don't even really need to say this. Anyone reading this probably spit out their milk at that line, or am I the only one who nearly fell over in shock?

I'm trying to amuse myself further, in some sadistic way, because I simply cannot get enough of this unbelievable thought process at work here trying to woe me, so I ask him again to tell me that part about the $20 for the most beautiful woman in Istanbul.

Again, he says it. And in his wording, again, there is this subversive yet intentionally obvious way of saying, "You are required to screw me for under $20 or even for free, because a) you're not the most beautiful woman in Istanbul and because b) I will call you afterwards, which means I care about you and therefore shouldn't have to pay for you at all."

At this point, thank Allah and Flying Pink Unicorns, we are almost to Taksim. Oh, please, hurry! Traffic open wide, let us through!

He spends the rest of the ride asking in every possible way if we can walk together in Taksim. The answer is No, No, and Hell No.

Soon as the doors open, I fly out of them and hit the pavement in a well-perfected speed walk that his little mushroom legs couldn't keep up with even if he were a dog after all. I never see him again, but hey, what a guy, right?