Men will not understand what it means. Hell, women don't understand why we do it.
I refer to the all too frequent (and bewildering) "Crotch Glance". It plays out the same way, millions of times, every single day, much like this example which I perpetrated, involuntarily I submit, yesterday:
Me: 20-something, not unattractive woman walking down the sidewalk to the bank, happy to be outside on a nice day. Not a care in the world...
Him: 35-40 year old man walking down the sidewalk towards me, casually, but not too slowly: khaki pants, blue Oxford shirt tucked neatly into the aforementioned trousers (loafers, I'm sure), a few protruding chest hairs from the tie-less unbuttoned collar (but thankfully, no gold chain in sight).
I look up at his face for a moment, as we pass on the sidewalk, out of pure human curiosity. Nothing abnormal here. We pretend we didn't just look each other in the eye or take a quick head-to-toe visual tour... and then... my eyes, as if compelled by some perverse and powerful force, are riveted for an instant to his crotch. The moment I realize that a voodoo spell has caused me to "crotch glance" a man who A: I do not find in the slightest bit attractive B: is wearing loose-fitting khaki pants which will clearly reveal no useful information C: like a plumed bird acourtin' has obviously displayed his "manly" chest hair in an attempt to lure unwitting crotch glancers, I do the only thing my few remaining functioning synapses will allow me to do... I look back up at his face. Oh for God's sake: He has caught me crotch glancing and is now fervently asking himself what it all means. "Did I pass?" "What does she think?" "She wants to bang me, doesn't she?" I can see the wheels turning in his head.
My Scottish blood seizes the moment to make an appearance in my face. (Amazing how quickly those chemical signals move, isn't it? Unfortunate they cannot be employed on keeping my eyes on the damn sidewalk instead.) I walk away pondering the how and why of this crotch-glancing.
Here are some theories:
1. I have frequently had the experience of telling myself so intensely not to do something, that I either come close to doing it, or succumb altogether. Example: Look at that dead mouse under the fridge. Don't touch the dead mouse under the fridge. (more firmly now): Don't touch the dead mouse under the fridge. DON'T touch it! Aw geez don't DO IT... fuck. You just HAD to touch the dead mouse, didn't you??
2. Maybe, deeply rooted somewhere in the nether-reaches of my brain, I have acknowledged that during a head-on encounter (ie, no chance for a glimpse of the fanny region) with the opposite sex, once checking out the face, there's nothing good left to look at except perhaps by stealing a little looksie at the crotch. If this is the case, it is very deeply rooted.
My conclusion is that there is no good solution to this mortifying occurence. My advice to men is not to read much into it, neither negative NOR positive. My advice to me is to concentrate on not concentrating. Otherwise, I will continue to touch the dead mouse under the fridge and glance at the crotches of unsuspecting passersby.