Because I've lived an absolutely insane in the membrane kinda life-I've kinda got a story for almost every occasion. Lies? Murder? Intrigue? That time I saved an enormous snapping turtle by lifting it off the road risking digits to do so? You bet baby!
This is just me spewing my thoughts and opinions about the whole fake number thing. Its not The Rules or anything and I wouldn't heed any rule that came from me anyhow. I'm just some weirdo in Canada who writes a lot of words and things :P
Its fucking awkward, annoying, infuriating, tiring and sometimes downright scary when some dude just. will. not. take "thanks, but I'm not interested" or "no thanks" or flat out "no" for an answer and leave you the fuck alone already, amirite? Fuck, sometimes you wanna just tell them you've got some combination of AIDS and Ebola that makes dicks fall off and will turn their balls inside out if they catch it from you. (I actually tried the AIDS thing when I was like 19 and lo and behold the guy was like "thats okay, I think I do too! No reason for us not to have some fun now!") So you're forced to move on to the Guaranteed Meatbonnet Repeller: "I've got a boyfriend/husband." Or in some cases just put an egg into your shoe and beat it to get away. Its never cool to have to abandon ship because some asshole won't take no for an answer.
And yes, I have issues with the fact that "I've got a boyfriend" seems to be the most effective way to get a horribly persistent Meatbonnet to back off. Something something something only respects property of another male. Something something something patriarchy. But if thats what it takes to get Sir Meatbonnet to disengage, then I say go ahead and lay it the fuck down.
You know the ones who would typically warrant some sort of male significantly otherish diversionary tactics- they just keep on doing their I'm Gonna Wear This Bitch Down thing despite hearing one, or any combination of the aforementioned no-based denials repeatedly.
If you've reached and breached the boyfriend point and that doesn't scare him off... Then you're not dealing with your garden variety Meatbonnet Sister. You've got a Stage V Creepazoid on your hands. Girl, you've got a problem.
I don't understand know the whole "the way to get this dingledork to stop asking for my number is to break down and hand over the number and its a fake number so that makes me safer" thing is supposed to be effective... But I can see how it could be an appealing way to stop some of the insanity in the middle of the insane encounter. The problem I see is that even if it is fake number, he doesn't know that. All he learns is that as long as he badgers a woman long enough- all the no's don't mean a thing because she'll eventually cough up the digits. Yuck.
And as one commenter pointed out on the MP: Sometimes they call you rightthatsecond to make sure they "got the number right" or whatever, and then you're standing there busted and he knows you gave him bogus digits. AWKward at best, rage inducing at worst. Who knows what that asshole is going to do if he finds out while you're still present?
Also, giving him the number to Miss Fakey McFakerson might get you off the hook TONIGHT... But what if you see him in the not too distant future? If theres a chance you're gonna cross paths with the recipient again its just... Its just... Very.
And very in a not good kinda way.
It sucks and blows because you feel cornered and its damned near impossible to know what to do. Makes you want to hire a ninja or a boxing kangaroo to accompany you any place you're at risk of dealing with a Meatbonnet... Which is everywhere I guess.
Giving in can also open up another whole can of worms and giving in with a fake number can open a vat of snakes if you have the luck of a GhostOfCourtneyStoddensBoobs.
I was in my early 20's and spent a lot of time at a bar on Queen Street. Sometimes I went in a group, sometimes I went by myself and hung out with regulars. I had a lot of guys approaching me back then and for the most part they usually took a no for a no and went away without much trouble when they heard it. Anyone who resisted the no's were given the Death Glare and that would do the trick. I had the occasional persistent jerk who just didn't get the no and Death Glare thing, but they usually skittered off when I said "Actually, I've got a boyfriend. He's over there" and then I would point to the nearest bouncer. Since the bouncers were bouncers they knew what the score was and would come over, throw a burly arm around me and say "who the fuck is this? He buggin you dear?" Cue the pitter patter of Meatbonnet feet skuttling away on a sticky floor.
Well, one night when the bar was running a bouncer and a half short and I was without my friends I drew in a Stage 4 1/3 Creepazoid (he would have been a Stage 5, but he was so friggen short I couldn't qualify him for a full on 5.) Initially, I was impressed with the fortitude it took for him to approach all 6' of me (I'm 5'8" but I was wearing big ass heels with chunky platforms under the toes at the time.) So I was pleasant to him in the beginning and did my best to stoop down and listen to his spiel. It quickly became clear that he he was in fact a Creepazoid. And this little Creepazoid must have been out of a Smurf bitch and sired by one of Ron Popeils non-stick frying pans or something because no amount of "no, nope, thanks but no thanks, is this cold sore weeping? and the answer is still no, yeah but no, NO, ain't gonna happen, NO" was working to deter him. So I pulled the boyfriend card, but with no bouncer or male friend to play the part the boyfriend thing just slid right off his slimy back, fell the 2 feet to the floor and he kept on pestering me for my number so we could get together.
I considered leaving, but I was like "you know what? No. I'm not gonna let this cockfart run me out of my fuckin bar. Who does he think he is? I could crush him with one of my big chunky shoes here!" And thats right about when I remembered this Rejection Hotline number thing that one of my friends told me about.
She'd heard about it and explained it to me, then we called it together and laughed and laughed at the recorded message. It went something like "Hello! This is not the person you are trying to call. You've reached the Rejection Hotline! The person who gave you this number didn't want you to have their real number. Don't be hurt, you could have been directed here for a number of reasons. Maybe you're ugly, or you have bad breath, or you are a weirdo, or so on and so on and so on." Something like that. It seemed hilarious at the time... To us at least.
So I went to the bathroom and memorized the number off my phone. When I returned to my perch, sure enough Creepazoid came drifting over with his annoying yammer. He asked me again for my number and I was like "SIGH. FINE if it'll get you to leave me alone I'll give you my fucking number. SIGH." I rolled my eyes and when he stuck his hand out and handed me a pen I grabbed his wrist, dug my nails in a bit and scrawled the Rejection Hotline number in jabby, jerky strokes into the back of his mitt. When I was done I said "UGH. There, you win hotshot, you got my number. SIGH. Now can you please back off??? SIGH."
Oh hells to the no. He would not back off at all. Because now "he knew" I was "into him" because hey- I gave him my number after all!
Now it was all "Well why should we wait baby? If you wanna get together we should just go somewhere RIGHT NOW. You said you wanted to get together sometime." (No, I said nothing of the sort actually. I begrudgingly stabbed you with my number fucktard.) He would not let up with the whole "Well you gave me your number so we could get together and I think we should get together NOW" bullshit.
I finally made the decision to lay tracks. No point in staying with a human dingleberry cramping my style anyhow. I told him I had to go to the bathroom and I just left.
Thanks for ruining my night Creepazoid!
I grabbed a cab and went home annoyed. By the next day Creepazoid was nothing but a story I shared with a couple friends and by the next weekend he ceased to exist to me altogether.
Apparently I didn't cease to exist to him though. No siree bob. Creepazoid called that number and took it rill personal. Who knows what he did for the two weeks from the time he browbeat the digits outta me to when he showed up at the bar again, but I think at least 10 of those days were dedicated to stewing over what a cunt I was.
Creepazoid showed up on the Friday and started talking to anyone who would listen to him about the slutcuntwhorebitch GhostOfCourtneyStoddensBoobs who thinks shes sooooo smart and sooooo much better then everyone else. Which is a little interesting, but not enough to keep anyones attention rilly long. So he started telling people I had herpegonosyphilaids and that I was a thief and I had sex with black people, basically a bunch of garden variety Angry Little Racist Man stuff.
Creepazoid was there when I showed up that Saturday and he followed me and my friends around for a while trying to get my back up. We just decided to ignore him completely. THAT made him livid and he eventually stormed out. We laughed about it, because angry little men are pretty funny when they are livid. I knew he was off and everything, but I didn't rilly see him as a threaty threat because of his diminutive stature.
He would show up all the time looking for me, trying to get my information from people and talking shit. When I heard he was asking questions I got sorta weirded out. He was trying to get my fucking address and where I worked! This went on for another few weeks because I was gone up to the cottage and stuff. I wasn't around to put a stop to it and I heard about it all after the fact. The next weekend I went to the bar I spent another night of him following me around and being obnoxious, so I put my foot down. I told the bouncers what he'd been up to and to get rid of him, this bullshit had gone on for months now and I didn't want him pestering me anymore. They tossed him out and banned him. OF COURSE he showed up a couple more times when different guys were on the door and he got tossed out every time someone inside pegged him.
So instead of leaving me alone, Creepazoid started hanging out at the bars on either side of, or across from the bar I went to. If I was with people we might catch a glimpse of him staring at us from a window or doorway, but then he would disappear right quick before anyone could decide what to do. If I was alone he would come outside and make gross comments, vague threats or make like he was going to follow me onto the streetcar. Whenever he did that I would take a cab to avoid sharing a streetcar with him. It was so totally out of hand and fucking bizarre that it had gone on for so damned long over a recorded dis.
Then, after about two weeks of nothing, no sightings and just when I was thinking Creepazoid had finally gotten it out of his system: I saw him outside my apartment building on the lobby cam while I was waiting for some Chinese food to arrive. That was it. He'd crossed the line.
I'd already learned from my assault that the police are useless. So I called some of my toughie friends and splained the sitch. I made for the bar that Saturday with the brutes running drogue and as luck would have it, the Creepazoid was waiting for me at a stool in the window of a falafel place across from the bar. I smiled and waved at him, Creepazoid looked confused. The rest is just some poor asshole getting his lumps and dumped unceremoniously into a dumpster with the rotten tabouli and soggy hot peppers.
I ended up moving not too long after that, not because of the Creepazoid... But I'm not gonna say that it wasn't in the back of my head that he might, just might try to retaliate despite all the injuries he sustained (or because of them.) It could have gone a lot worse if any of the factors were a little different. You never know. Thats the problem, you can never fucking tell or be sure when it comes to humans (or farts, you can never trust a fart.)
I know its only one instance of some dude getting all butthurt and flipping his lid about getting a fake funny number, but still. If the guy is creepy enough to warrant a fake number for whatever reason- then the chances of him going bonkers when he gets that recording are that much higher. Thats the main reason I wouldn't advise using that tactic. The secondary reason being that relenting and handing over a number of any sort only teaches that type to keep at it and they'll get what they want eventually.
I have a taser now. If any dude pesters me for even a minute more after I make it clear that NO I am NOT interested or available for anything other than an ass kicking I will tell him "Okay fucky. I got a number for you. 50000. Thats the number of volts that are travelling into your neck." and then zap him... Right in the neck. Then I will run away, run away home and post about it here while I wait for the fuzz to come a knockin on my door.
Be safe out there. Or just come over here and we'll sort through my clothes or something. Because rilly, they are a hot mess right now.
This is one of the turtles I've saved... He was a beaut!