Why, yes, those -are- my boxer briefs I’m holding at the moment…

Number one way of getting someone to question whether or not they should continue to pursue you romantically: get them to somehow see you holding a fistful of men’s boxer briefs. Actually, I was just doing my laundry when this guy I know walked in for no other reason than to “look for his friend”. Shyeah, right, cool story bro. If you’re with your friend and there’s nobody else in the laundry room, why did you even go in there? I might be a tad bit presumptuous, but I’m the only one here. Certainly, you must have been looking to engage me in some sort of idle conversation.

But, yeah; I was in the middle of shoveling my not-so-dainty undergarments into the dryer when he walked in. It was priceless! I could literally see the cogs turning ’round and ’round in his head as I held a fistful of what are unmistakably menswear and casually said “‘Sup.” I’m sure that at least one of the thoughts that occurred to him at that moment went somewhere along the lines of “Oh, fuck, she’s got a boyfriend already. AND she’s doing his laundry for him! Crap!” Priceless, especially when you consider my preferences! I had to smother my own laughter, save it so that I could write it down for posterity here. For once, I didn’t feel the need to explain that, yes, these are my underwear and I regularly wear what is considered to be “typically male clothing” in order to feel at ease with my gender fluidity because I’m sure the conclusion he jumped to is more than enough to get him to back the fuck up.

There’s actually quite a few people that I’d like to back the fuck up. Surprising yet true. This is a relatively new phenomenon at least as far as I can tell. Usually, I’m the one that needs to just stop and walk away from doggedly whining and pining after someone I can’t have. As it turns out, being on the other side of the situation, i.e. being the one that’s being pined for, is just as uncomfortable (if not slightly more so). I still don’t know how it came to be that I can now reject people and I don’t like this development at all. It’s not fun! To the people that claim to lay waste to other people’s hearts for the sake of diversion: lend me your unfeeling, numbed soul and tactlessness, please! Prescribe to me whatever anesthetic with which you put yourself under before utterly shattering your would-be suitor’s hopes and dreams because I can’t do it just as I am! More often than not, I feel like I’m pushed to do it as an act of mercy because, again, I know that feeling all too well and it does no good to hang them with their own hopes. It’s a noose I’d rather not knot, having hung from it myself a time or two.

I’m over-exaggerating, clearly. I’m sure that everyone knows both sides of this particular story, even the Lotharios and Mrs. Robinsons of the world. But it’s not easy for me to say no to begin with. I ended up working on Friday night and pretty much all of Saturday this weekend because of it. I’m usually the one saddled with getting things together for an event or going to something on behalf of someone else when I should be studying because the word “no” doesn’t seem to exist in my vocabulary. But it’s either I gather my nerve, be direct with whoever it is I’m dealing with, and put them down now or have to suffer countless, clumsy, utterly wince-worthy attempts to grab my attention.

You want to know what’ll really grab my attention? How about some good conversation? It doesn’t have to be about politics or the state of the world around us. You don’t have to impress me with your vast knowledge of the world around us. No, let that be for strangers getting to know one another. It doesn’t matter what we talk about, really. Hell, it could even be the things you’ve already said before and you’re just repeating yourself for the umpteenth time, I don’t care. I’m listening, sort of, but watching mostly. The way your eyes widen and brighten. How your movements are so much more animated, exaggerated when you’re talking about the things you like. I may not understand it, sure, but it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll Google it later, I promise.

I want to see you get flustered as you try to convey what moves you to such a degree. I’m sitting back, drinking it all in, and you, my dear, are certainly a tall drink. Well, not too tall; I’d rather like to be the taller one, if you don’t mind. But your grace, your smile, your way of being…fluid. All fluid and flowing and so very bright. It’s something that can only be seen when you’re comfortable around someone; to be honest, I’m just glad you’re comfortable around me. Me, the would-be predator, if only I weren’t so cowardly and vain. Because, yes, looks do matter to me, a decisive factor in many a match. But just give me that scintillating display and looks can take a backseat. I’m already halfway yours.

Your voice, too, because I’m still listening. Be it rich and smooth or a light, lilting melody, occasionally pierced by staccatos, the voice is key. The hair, too; it is a well-documented fact that I have a fondness for short, neatly trimmed, soft, glowing locks. Blondes, in particular, are a weakness, though no two people are the same. It’s quite astonishing, really. Of the many, many parallels I can draw between two people that I have loved, the most prominent seems to be the hue of their hair. But even then, there is variance. It matters but it doesn’t. It’s nice but not necessary.

I just… There’s no tactful way to put it, is there? The people that are after me don’t do it for me. The people that do it for me aren’t after me. And those are just the people that I happen to be aware of, be they the classroom creeper or my current crush! Who knows who I’m forgetting, who I’ve looked at, curious, but then shaken my head and thought “Nah, there’s no way they’d like me like that, right? We’re just friends and shit.” I suppose to sum it all up, I just want someone who is as comfortable as possible with which to be equally comfortable around so that I, in turn, can show them just how flustered I can get when I talk about the things I like. I know I’m not one for getting all sappy and mushy and whatever, but I’d like someone that I can be weak around, a bosom where I can lay my head and, for once, not have to suck it up or be my usual toughened, slightly masculine self, someone that I don’t have to put on a brave face for 24/7. I want someone who both inspires me to write my poems and is totally okay with reading them (as I wince, nervously awaiting their opinion of my work). I want someone to be able to surrender to and yet it not be a “defeat”.

Does that make any sense? Is that too much to ask? And, really, who doesn’t want this for themselves? At times I wonder if I should even aspire to attain such a precious thing for myself…Scratch that; I know I should. So should everyone else. We’re all worth this bit of happiness or so we’ve been told. But I know what I would do should attaining such a thing require breaking of other peoples’ happiness: take the hint and walk away. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.


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