More practice at female perspective, this time abstracted an observer away.
She's got short hair, which I always equate to ballsiness in a woman. I figure it takes a certain something to shear off those locks you've been so carefully grooming and perfuming your whole life. Maybe after you tell everyone you know you're gay cutting off all your hair doesn't seem like such a big deal. Gay or not, my brain's throwing up a vivid mental image of this girl's shorn head, sweaty face, from a distance of about three inches, and I can feel my cock wake up like I'm twelve years old again and the evening news is showing another freeze-frame closeup of Janet Jackson's left nipple. We're such animals.
She's been glancing at this guy two seats down - eating at the bar with his buddy, tall (considerably taller than me), scruffy beard that's our generation's take on the meticulously groomed oh-I-just-got-out-of-bed hairstyle, paying her exactly zero attention - when the buddy gets up and she makes her move. I don't hear what she says but I recognize the wry-smile-and-glance-down that follows it. He laughs and puts an elbow on the bar, the elbow closer to her, turning his torso away. Maybe she's reading the haptic signaling like me or maybe she just knows she's blowing it, because then she goes for broke and puts a hand on his arm. Whenever a girl puts her hand on my arm, even when it's just a case of lost balance on the subway, I inevitably think I should've been doing more pushups. No doubt leaning across that empty seat causes her shirt to fall away in a very distracting fashion. It doesn't work and he goes back to picking at his wedge-cut steak fries.
Poor girl. Poor girls. At least we animals are broadly in control of our own fates. We want a girl, we're responsible for mounting a pursuit. Maybe it runs out, maybe not, but the girls - you want to feel desired, you gotta somehow get some guy to pursue you, and thats a whole 'nother level of mindfuckery beyond talking a girl out of her Victoria's Secret University of Pink panties. Because he can't even know you're trying to convince him to convince you to fuck him, or the game's up and it's no fun for anybody. So, what? You just gotta peacock around in your push-up bra and mango body wash and wait to get picked up like the goddamn baboon with the reddest hindquarters at the party? Fuck that. Poor girls.
Poo
She's got short hair, which I always equate to ballsiness in a woman. I figure it takes a certain something to shear off those locks you've been so carefully grooming and perfuming your whole life. Maybe after you tell everyone you know you're gay cutting off all your hair doesn't seem like such a big deal. Gay or not, my brain's throwing up a vivid mental image of this girl's shorn head, sweaty face, from a distance of about three inches, and I can feel my cock wake up like I'm twelve years old again and the evening news is showing another freeze-frame closeup of Janet Jackson's left nipple. We're such animals.
She's been glancing at this guy two seats down - eating at the bar with his buddy, tall (considerably taller than me), scruffy beard that's our generation's take on the meticulously groomed oh-I-just-got-out-of-bed hairstyle, paying her exactly zero attention - when the buddy gets up and she makes her move. I don't hear what she says but I recognize the wry-smile-and-glance-down that follows it. He laughs and puts an elbow on the bar, the elbow closer to her, turning his torso away. Maybe she's reading the haptic signaling like me or maybe she just knows she's blowing it, because then she goes for broke and puts a hand on his arm. Whenever a girl puts her hand on my arm, even when it's just a case of lost balance on the subway, I inevitably think I should've been doing more pushups. No doubt leaning across that empty seat causes her shirt to fall away in a very distracting fashion. It doesn't work and he goes back to picking at his wedge-cut steak fries.
Poor girl. Poor girls. At least we animals are broadly in control of our own fates. We want a girl, we're responsible for mounting a pursuit. Maybe it runs out, maybe not, but the girls - you want to feel desired, you gotta somehow get some guy to pursue you, and thats a whole 'nother level of mindfuckery beyond talking a girl out of her Victoria's Secret University of Pink panties. Because he can't even know you're trying to convince him to convince you to fuck him, or the game's up and it's no fun for anybody. So, what? You just gotta peacock around in your push-up bra and mango body wash and wait to get picked up like the goddamn baboon with the reddest hindquarters at the party? Fuck that. Poor girls.
Poo
