Do I look like fucking America?

"I want to explore you," said the man I'd met in person only minutes ago.
I smirked, rolled my eyes, and waited for more bullshit to come rolling out of his mouth.
"I want to know what it's like to touch you. All of you. Every inch of your beautiful smooth skin," his long thing fingers reached out for my face and stroked my cheek.
My stomach lurched.
"I'm not having sex with you," I said, my voice flat and unaffected by his determined words.
He smiled, leaned forward, and laid his lips against my jaw.
My throat tightened and I pushed him away.
"We don't have to have sex. I want you, and all of you. I want to explore this passion I feel for you," he grabbed my hand and shoved it to his chest. "I want to know why you make my heart feel this way."
I couldn't feel a damn thing.
He wrapped his fingers into my hair and leaned forward so I could feel the cold breath of a kiss brush against my neck. My body tensed.
"I want to explore you," he whispered into my ear, trying to be seductive, sensual, and charming.
Not so much.
I pressed my hands against his shoulders and shoved him away.
"Look," I replied, "You're not Colombus and I sure as hell am not your America. Go explore somebody else ya creep."
I grabbed my jacket, and scrambled for my purse. My eyes narrowed in disgust as i saw confusion pass his face.
"Oh please, like you think that 'explore' shit was going to work on me," I hissed. "Have a nice fucking night loser. No means no."
I opened up the door to his jeep, popped out of the passengers seat, stuck my tongue out at him, and slammed the door shut.
Fucking creep.