MISS MOOX + time

The eyes

I felt them almost as much as I saw them, the pair of eyes running up and down my legs, bare beneath my knee-length skirt, as I stepped into the Chinese restaurant to order lunch.

I studiously ignored him and placed my order, retreating to a spot where I could watch him as I waited.

Probably in his forties. Short and dumpy with a potbelly, high forehead, dark hair and mustache. Denim jacket matching his jeans. Cowboy boots.

He was sitting in the row of chairs placed just inside the entrance for the convenience of customers waiting for their takeout orders. As each woman walked into or out of the restaurant, his eyes travelled up and down her bum and legs with the air of a motorcycle lover checking out a tricked-out Harley.

A trim blonde woman in a black-and-white Nike tracksuit swooshed in and stepped up to the counter. Wow. This required major staring. He didn't even bother to disguise his view as he admiringly ran his gaze along her toned legs.

She walked out, came back in several minutes later. Order still not ready. This time, she sat right down in the chair next to him, oblivious to his attention. This was jackpot gold. He swivelled heavily in his seat and continued to check her out: her legs; glanced at her face; and generally gave her the several-times-over.

Yuck. Creepy.

What is it about guys? Not all guys are like that, but so many are. I felt dirty. And undressed. And disgusted. I don't mind a guy checking me out. But when he's got sex written all over his face, it's just distasteful. Please, keep me out of your private fantasy.

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