Why is it that men are so easily reeled in, yet so hard to keep near? An answer, I need, I feel it come clear. I entered a bookshop today, and something occurred, a sly move of mine, which I’m hesitant to disclose, yet, here it goes:
One soft smile of mine, one step into the room, one glance at an interesting book and there he was: trying to impress me with his intellect and knowledge; wanting not to show too much, know too little, conscious enough not to frolic. A small flick of my hair and he couldn’t help himself, he had to say, “hey”, he just couldn’t stray: being male, though unwelcome, he had to walk his walk and talk his talk; attempt to play this endless game of what? True love?
A pessimistic view of an animal instinct always on cue; although I should be flattered, he did give it a go. He was decent, he was nice, he saw a window and went in blind. Poor guy, he didn’t really know, that I wasn’t in a place so kind.
But he made it too easy, he’s in sales, poor soul, he seemed a bit eager, a little unsure, so I dropped him a bomb, a small test, if you will, to give him a stance, a good tease, if you please: “let’s talk of poetry, a plausible purchase, for I’m really intrigued, I need you to listen: it’s a book that I read, just before sleep, it’s erotic and keen, one I enjoy in my bed.” Silence. An instant in which I saw a twitch, a small twitch on the corner of his mouth, a little sparkle in the blink of his eye. Intrigued by my thighs, and the skirt that I wore, he couldn’t hide it: he undressed me in his mind. I thought to myself, “I’m sorry I teased you, (not really, but sure), for poor you little boy, now I’m a dream for your toy.”
I gave it to him with such a straight face that I don’t think he knew there was a test in place. One he failed, poor child, for he gave himself away, but I can’t blame him, oh no! Any man would’ve done the same.
It’s an encounter I don’t regret, yet still a consequence I must reap; for I do enjoy my tease and my power over men. Though it may come with ease, lonely I still feel, for whichever man I reel, no heart will I steal, for mine is still broken, not ready to share, too scared to be touched, too frightened to be real. So the jest is on me, a lonely soul with a plea: oh why, oh why, hasn’t a man chosen me?