Mind you, I never made a conscious decision whether or not to have sex with this woman. And I was of course aware of the possibility that she would suggest it. I simply floated through our conversation, the epitome of apathy, waiting to see what she would do, and what I would do. And when she suggested sex, I laughed nervously and looked out the window. Since I never made a decision to do this, this begs the question, why did I do what I did?

After all, the whole purpose of this trip was to acquire an education, and banging a middle-aged woman in an Arizona Greyhound station would surely be an education, or at the least, something to write about. On the other hand, there were certainly good reasons to decline her offer. The whole thing was more than a little skanky, and though I was armed with rubbers, they wouldn't make the encounter smell any better. We aren't talking about creeping into a dark corner during a rave; we're talking about balling someone in a bus station bathroom. Gross.

Did any of this factor into my snap decision? I doubt it. And I don't think her physical appearance made a difference to me, either: for or against. Now, she didn't make a horribly good impression on me, personality-wise. Racism is rarely erotic. And her pickup line was pretty silly, I mean, hooray for innuendo, but choosing the box? Really.

That didn't factor in either. There's only one explanation: I am shy. I find this fact horribly embarrassing. Here I am, trucking all over the country, foisting myself into the homes of strangers so that I can write about them after sleeping on their couches, and I'm still too self-conscious to accept an offer of casual, strings-free sex on the road. It's rather a blow to my ego to realize that, after all the things I've done and am doing, I'm still afraid of the pretty ladies.

Oh well. Fuck this vignette: I'm only depressing myself pointlessly. The story is simple: someone suggested sex, I declined, I feel like a pussy. The end.