I just thought of another incident from my past that can perhaps shed light and help the OP to reassess his feelings about what women actually appreciate in a man (hint: they don’t respect touchy-feely, mealy-mouthed Dudly DoRights).
I may have mentioned before that I grew up in South Jersey, where men are goombas and women are men. I kid (not much), but, Jersey girls do have a certain “in your face” attitude toward life in general and men in particular. Let’s just say, you don’t want to mess with Jersey chicks unless you’re wearing a titanium groin protector.
This took place before I “broke bad” and was still intimidated by women and scared to ask them out on dates:
One night, decades ago, my friend Ernie and I walked into a popular nightclub on Long Beach Island at the Jersey shore (The Clam, Beach Haven). As usual, I scoped out the joint, located a couple of fine female specimens and told Ernie that we needed to sit next to them at the bar—and we did.
The girls were very cute and just my type when I was in my early 20’s: skinny, loud, big hair, Italian.
This was the era of Disco music and the house band was playing one disco song after another (mostly Bee Gees). I kept trying to muster the courage to ask the girl now seated next to me to dance. That was my designated girl; Ernie would have to make do with the one seated next to my girl—she had an enormous nose, a cockeyed mouth and complexion problems. But, Ernie was no Adonis, so he was happy to deal with my scraps. The whole mix-n-match depended on me getting up the nerve to ask “my” girl to dance and only then could everything else fall into place.
But…I wimped out.
I kept blaming it on the song selection, but the fact was, I was just too scared to ask the girl seated next to me to dance. Ernie kept nudging me into action, but I kept waving him off…”next song, I promise.” I kept glancing at my girl, and she kept glancing at me. I could tell she was interested in me, but still, I was afraid to put my heart/balls on the line. All for a stupid dance?!?
This timidity went on song after song. At one point, “my girl” asked me for a match (yes, kids, people used to smoke in the old days) and I handed her my book of matches. But, that’s all I gave her…no invitation to talk or dance or anything else. I was a mute, imbecilic gelding, so to speak.
I was ashamed of myself. I should have asked this girl to dance and then get to know her better. I wanted her; she appeared to want me; Ernie wanted the big-nosed friend; the big-nosed friend appeared to want Ernie. It was all up to me to make this sexual smorgasbord come to fruition. But, I dropped the ball. My *“nice guy” *persona got the best of me and I acted like a heterosexual amongst a cornucopia of homosexuals; or a homosexual amongst a cornucopia of heterosexuals. Bottom line: I was a testosterone-depleted pansy.
Then, when a particularly awesome, bass-driven Disco masterpiece started thumping from the subwoofers, I finally mustered the courage to ask my gal to dance.
But, alas, it was not meant to be. When I looked over, the lust of my life was standing up, along with Big Nose. She slid her hand toward me on the bar, then she and Big-Nose walked out of the disco facility, never again to be seen by me or Ernie. I looked down where she had slid her hand and there under my nose was the book of matches I graciously gave her.
I picked up the matchbook and looked at it. I was shocked. My potential immortal beloved had removed all but 5 matches in the front row of the matchbook; and all but the middle match was bent backward. The message was clear. On the inside flap she wrote, “I would have said yes, asshole.”
That was yet another brick in the wall of my discarding my “nice guy” façade and becoming what women really want.