Lacking the Impetus to Hit That

"You wanna hit that? You know you wanna hit that. Really, you got a good look. Do you wanna hit that? Yes you do."
The above is about ten seconds of what a coworker said to me this past week one evening working at the bar. Normally this wouldn't faze me in the least; I say and think worse thoughts going to a retirement community pool.
The reason I was put off, however, is sadly innocent: the person saying it to me was a nice girl who isn't yet twenty talking about a friend of hers she's trying to fix up.
I'm not opposed to matchmaking or even to objectification but somehow when a friend does it to another friend and tries to figurately sell the friend's uniqueness/worth exclusively on sexual grounds it rubs me the wrong way. Not even wrong in that right way either.
The best I could answer was "maybe". Maybe I'll want to. Certainly not now but maybe.
It's more of me denouncing sex without strings (for myself right now only). It isn't what I want and I know I shouldn't engage with someone who is primarily looking for sex (unless she's absurdly hot and possesses a list of good sexual traits).
What's funny is how everyone's view of me isn't even close to accurate: even those that know I'm not looking for sex keep encouraging me to get some more (from family to friends. . . everyone. . . no one is actually listening to me). The coworker thought that because I took someone home a few weeks ago that I usually do that. . . I told her she was mistaken (as she is. . . 2 i-didnt-know-you-before-but-now-my-dick-is-in-you hook-ups to date on my 'record'; both bad to some degree).
The irony is my hatred of slutty people. Even people who aren't slutty but who fuck or blow too much (it's especially bad when they don't consider themselves slutty. . . I much prefer self-aware sluts to out-of-touch whores. . . I actually like self-aware sluts since they have no misconceptions about who they are). I'm trying to avoid that route. At least right now.

A friend asked me how things were going and I answered 'blandly'. He noticed that I didn't want to go to school, didn't want to fuck girls, oriented myself around food and sleep and have largely stopped going to the gym (although ball still centers me). His diagnosis: depression. My response: maybe.
Maybe he's right but I don't care enough to know. I don't even care enough to feel bad. I feel bland. Unaffected. Static. It isn't bad but isn't good. I'm fine with this state for the time being; it's better than a number of alternatives I can imagine.

Maybe I should rename this post "Maybe". Maybe. But that'd mean I care enough to do so.