Listen.

Yes I am good looking, I agree with what those eyes tell me and what that smile conveys, I accept the cargo of your rapid glancing, I concur with your unmistakable belief that I am your one, the one to satisfy your inquisition and conquer your entirety if you will just come over here, at least within my half of the room lest the patrons of this pulsing soiree remain unable to share in what we share, this uncommon bond, the ratification of all I am sharing in this astral congress, not just to you, my waif, but to the entire sisterhood of our species, so absurd is the strength of my inside animal, too much for just you as you remain in that hemisphere, unlike her, yes, her who deigns to approach my space, perhaps she will more plainly demonstrate with me a tête à tête, not with clandestine looks but outrageous actualizations of her interest, nay, her devotion to a gentleman of my standing, one of the few of my gender able to so graphically soak in the palpable advances of your entrance herein, the mystery of woman that I so furtively have mastered, expressed thusly with darting eyes, a veritable sneer of success, and the isolation that comes with said greatness, greatness it appears that is not extant, o wench, as I will not accept less than public exchanges of joy, no matter how this hurts you, you of such subtlety and, frankly, societal mousiness, unable to embrace or apparently even look toward verdant masculinity, most unlike the comely embodiment of femality that enters the abode, such bold strokes in her limbs, and maybe even a pleasing personality, likely raw as unmolded clay needing to be, well, molded, a perfect project for me to groom into something worth celebrating, the synergy of my sundry human skills and the desire of you to be taken there, there you go, too rapid for my arrival, possibly in wait for a cloistered ardor, away from this rabble of increasingly dull hoi polloi, yes there you wait, perhaps signaling me invisibly to meet out by the bushes for wanderlust, but no, not likely what with the way you fawn over that other guy, an effort to make me jealous surely, but hesitating to share with me what I desire, all of you hesitating, maddeningly, leading me on with quick grins and fast escapes, drawing me in with the mixed messages of aloofness and the illusion of irritation, such a game we play, what with me holding so many cards but never winning a hand, and so the game is no game at all but a frustrating near-irony, you telling me so very nearly what I want to hear, except your directive is to do that to myself we both know we should be doing that together.

Filed under: Selective Hearing by jasonleary
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