In the sweltering hot heat of my seldom-exposed nether regions, there lies an elusive deferment button. Once pressed, my mind will instantly revert to thoughts of impending doom and revelations of sasquatch mortality. It has become a problem, because when women find it I go to a place where I don't know whether I'm actually aroused or just dicking around the dandier parts of the universe. It's useful when you've got someone to share it with though.

I'm under the impression that feminine arousal has an otherwise capricious, mountain-like progression, that lacks any certain sense of immediacy, which is difficult to clue into, because a girl could be getting fancy in her head all day long and won't know it until they're swirlier than Victorian trim and can't understand why the guy is talking about the new Star Trek movie. Then they stop talking to him for a week because of how huge of a cuntmonkey letdown he is at life, and most normal masculine responses to this go something like 'what?' or 'huh?', but I fall under the unfortunate umbrella of dudes who immediately know what and where they've fucked up, and don't have a damn clue what to do about it.

This is a picture of the inside of a woman's brain.

There's a girl who was a flower plucker and a an uncharacteristically chipper ginger once. Nowadays she's nearly the same, only sweeter, and I made a point of telling her these and other fluffy but entirely honest things. She eventually goggled at me, and it made me think, 'Jesus, what amazing freckles she has', when really she wanted me to want to slap some sense into her, or nonsense rather, and with my lips. It wasn't until immediately after my chance had passed that I thought to take it, and I would have, had I met the criteria beforehand of wooing and wooing and wooing and wooing broads, but I'm just a natural romantic who forgets these things when they matter.

But let me recount one imaginary experience I had once that's of the romau variety.

I find her and ignore the normal or otherwise romantic greeting procedures
And immediately address the topic of being 'fucking famished'
I want a meal, but something sweet and melty'll have to finish it off, I say
We walk and talk options and I point at something
She looks and is fixated, in awe for a split second
I take her hand, a surprise
When we are about to walk in, I stop and give a man directions,
All the while holding the door, letting the A.C. out
She stands in the portal, waiting, patient
It's sweet
We go in and eat, and talk logistics of stuff
We stop talking and play footsie
I won't laugh, I can't laugh, she laughs. So do I.
The dessert is too sweet, noticeably fattening even, but perfect
We ride somewhere, anywhere, home maybe
There is a sunset and I rub her thigh, wanting to hold all of her
In the heat of changing our clothes, we forget to finish and leave them off
There is so much skin, miles of skin
And every inch has these wonderful tingles all over them
And tingles turn to waves
Waves turn to chapters
Chapters turn into a story about flying to the sun
And there's the calm of space
Ant there's that skin again
And a tunnel that carries you to where you pretend there are more people than just you
And you grin in the real world's dreamscape

See, now I've gone and been romantic again. Does this even work? Is this just TOO MUCH of what feels like a good thing? I don't know. I just figure I'm dicking around in the dandier parts of the universe or something. I figured it'd be a nice joke to share though.


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